System Discordia
by Eris Mackenzie
Summary: After a failed Death Eater rebellion against Voldemort, Draco Malfoy is found barely alive in Malfor Manor's dungeon. When asked why he betrayed the Dark, what will he say? The most unexpected person wants to know. HD slash
1. Release of the Inner Sanctum

**Title**: System Discordia

**Author**: Eris Mackenzie

**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

**A/N**: Just a **WARNING** - there is **RAPE** and **TORTURE** in this chapter, so **skip** if you don't want to read.

_Disinaporus _- spell which disintegrates the cells and/or magic of a magical creature.

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**Chapter One: Release of the Inner Sanctum**

_It takes more courage to suffer than it does to die. -Napoleon Bonaparte_

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The cold grey cobblestones rushed out from under his feet in quick succession. Tonight was the night he and his father had been planning for months upon end with scores of fellow Death Eaters across England and Scotland. Heated debates and questions of whether this was the right choice had clouded the heads of the members for days, weeks even. Few men were of courageous calibre, but that was not the reason for their uproar--it was the fact that they were scared, scared of death, scared of pain and retribution. None of that could be allowed, and now in such complete secrecy, nothing could afford to go wrong.

In the crystal clear autumn night, a pale wraith draped in black slid through the darkness with all of the grace befitting a snake. His presence barely stirred a ripple in the sun-bleached grass fields. The boy moved with the agility and elegance of a feline and was as keen as a dancer on where to tip-toe his steps: nothing less had been expected of him when growing up than to show his class.

His breath was smooth and shallow, but inside he was shaking, intimately terrified, yet not showing it at all. In fact, he appeared as if he were merely strolling towards the dense thicket of trees near Leeds for a midnight walk, but those who understood his true intent knew better. A closer inspection showed his steps to be picked with deliberate cautiousness, and even the lightest sound was treated like a gunshot bang--something to be quieted immediately.

The white blond boy looked over his shoulder to glance behind him: he thought he had heard something, but it must have just been the wind. His eyes flicked imperceptibly around the perimeter of the forest as he neared the border, searching for some small sign he had been markedly directed to take.

Suddenly, among a minute rustle of bushes, a female deer strutted out shyly, twisting and turning its head immediately in Draco's direction as he slowed to a stand-still. Its glassy eyes were completely black, but its fur had a strange dotted pattern almost like a star. Draco allowed himself a small smile. This was his sign.

The deer sniffed the air for a second, acknowledging that Draco was of no threat, and then in a blink of an eye, it was gone, leaping through the night soundlessly. It disappeared entirely moments later as if it had never been there at all, which in truth, it might have just been a temporary transfiguration, a rock that had for a moment walked and breathed before becoming earth once again.

Gliding stealthily into the trees, Draco soon saw what he was looking for--the few Death Eaters all the way from Ireland who had joined up in the fight and were, as had been proved mercilessly, excellent marksmen and, in essence, assassins.

One of the rougher looking men whom Draco knew only by his last name, Moriarty, caught Draco's eye from his crouched position on the ground and nodded. The dark haired man curled a finger to Draco, silently signalling him over.

As noiselessly as a fox, Draco trudged over, careful not to step on any sharp twigs or dead leaves. The trees rustled overhead in the dead quiet. The air was warm, scented with the faint smell of lilacs from a bush nearby.

As Draco dropped into a squat beside him, Moriarty murmured quietly, "We have the whole house surrounded. Your father is on the other side, waiting to Apparate here once we break in. From what we know, Voldemort is inside. No movement other than the house elves has been reported."

Draco nodded. His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them against the black material of his tailored pants. Against traditional wizard garb, Draco and the others were not wearing robes; instead, they wore black close-fitting Muggle clothes that were better suited for stealth and drew far less attention. Robes would have gotten caught on the branches when they snuck up on Voldemort, as they planned to do.

All of this in order to be free.

Contrary to what others thought, Death Eaters may have joined of their own choice through Voldemort's smooth persuasion and their own power lust, but once a wizard became a Death Eater, one literally _couldn't_ turn back.

Back when Voldemort had found out that some of his followers were betraying him--even before he found out about the prophecy seventeen years ago--he had created an orb that actually stole part of an individual's life force. This orb contained a very small fraction of their magic, but it was enough to connect it to them and, in a case of displeasure, kill them. The Dark Mark became the very connection between the Death Eaters and the orb. Voldemort bled and branded his new recruits with the Mark, though he did not bother with those of his intelligentsia whom he regarded as his _elite_.

Draco had seen what happened in the case of a turned Death Eater when someone had tried to betray. Once part of a Death Eater's magic was contained, it was suicide to consider leaving. Draco himself had gone through the ceremonies with no less pain than others. He, too, abhorred the ink and magic imbedded in his once-pure skin. There was nothing for it that anyone could do, not anymore.

The orb came to be called the "Burning Ball" because of the torturous agony bestowed upon a Death Eater if he tried to turn to the Light. Once the fires that literally ignited the viscera of his body died down, there would be nothing left but ashes to blow away in the wind. None of the Death Eaters, including Draco, wanted to face that fate.

However, ever since Voldemort has been resurrected three years before, after the Triwizard Tournament, his more astute followers had immediately noticed a drastic change in their lord. Before, the spiteful wizard had seen a purpose in ridding the planet of half-bloods and Muggles tainting what he viewed as a 'pure world,' but now he was simply hell-bent on destroying a boy no more than Draco's age--a boy who had miraculously conquered him at the tender age of one year old with no more than a back-fired spell from Voldemort himself. It was ironic that the prophecy might not have come true had he not tried to stop it in the first place, and now everyone suffered.

From the increasingly erratic and random pillages and murders that the Death Eaters still dutifully performed, it did not take much insight to predict that Voldemort's power was quickly spiralling out of control. He would not win the war.

At the beginning of Draco's sixth year, Voldemort had set up an inaugural trial for him: kill his legendary headmaster, Dumbledore, or kill his own family. Draco could not do it, no matter how hard he tried to force himself to. He knew that if he did not do so, then his mother and father would most certainly be killed. His mother--being the beauty she was and also just being a 'frail' and therefore 'weak' woman--would first be raped and beaten, though it would probably be much the same for his father too. Torture was one thing in the world that seemed to bring Voldemort pleasure, as sick as it was. Something like that should not have been put on Draco's shoulders, yet it had been.

Luckily, his godfather and also a secret spy for the Light, Severus Snape, had covered for him. He had killed the old man himself and said that the headmaster had put Draco under mind grips that not even the great Lord Voldemort himself could begrudge.

Draco had gotten off the hook--but not without a price, of course. It was just one set of afflictions that had been methodically replaced with another: maybe one time it was simply killing a few Muggles, the next torturing a mother in front of her children and laughing as she begged and cried to take her over her babies, and the next a senseless bloody massacre overlooked by a masturbating lord.…It was just the same hell over and over and over…

That was when Draco had truly known what it was like to be like his father.

When he was younger and naïve, even up to a point past his initiation ceremony and his first blooding, he had never truly understood, never fully grasped just what he was doing. But the look on his first victim's face just before he cast the Killing Curse--the pale, utterly broken eyes of but a five year old child--it was one look that set his whole world. He knew now why his father always had such a weary and sick face when he thought no one was looking, and why he would shut himself away, or drink himself into oblivion, or scream and yell. He understood now why his father would come home, smelling of smoke and drenched in blood and Merlin-knew-what else, lay his head in his mother's lap, and just _cry_. That pain shaped them both. That was the year he finally grew up.

Draco's father had not wanted him to get involved in this business, despite what everyone else thought. If anything, Lucius was the first one to notice something was off with Voldemort, and now he was the first to lead a Death Eater rebellion against the very master who had made them what they were. It was not to say, however, that every Death Eater wanted out; in fact, if many of the others had found out about the ambush, the rebels would have already been dead.

Draco swallowed as he marched dutifully through the underbrush. He did not want to die.

Only a small group of Death Eaters had actually come here to retrieve what was needed. That was all that would hopefully be required, and none of them were dull enough to risk giving everyone in their society away. The plan was to go in, take the orb, and flee. Not a very strategic plan, but one that should work none-the-less. 'Should' being the operative word. Even with extensive researching, no one had actually figured out _how _to destroy the orb without destroying themselves in the process. However, they hoped that once they had it, they could figure it out.

Draco caught the sight of Moriarty's hand going out to signal the other Death Eaters crouched in the trees to move forward. Almost like the way the American-Muggle FBI were portrayed when they stalked out through a potential battlefield, the Death Eaters slunk slow to the ground and kept quiet. The partial Invisibility Charms on them glimmered and distorted their bodies, but they could not go completely invisible for fear of getting Avada Kedavra-ed accidentally by a fellow rebel in the heat of the moment.

"Go to the left," Moriarty muttered in Draco's ear so closely that Draco jumped.

Draco glanced back over his shoulder to look at the dark-haired hunter, but he was already gone. Draco gritted his teeth at the sudden lurch of his stomach and did as he was told without question. His fellow Death Eaters followed his lead and took off in the same direction as Draco.

Within moments, the trees cleared to reveal a dark looming mansion set on the side of a hill. Voldemort had not taken to Riddle Mansion, and he had found another, more elegant and regal, house right smack in the middle of the secluded woods--an added benefit of natural privacy, Draco guessed.

Around the Victorian-era mansion was a snaking veranda covered in night-blooming moonvine. The heavy heads resembled large Morning Glories, but these flowers were as black as night itself and twined atop the woodwork like parasites.

Draco tripped on a hidden rock and almost fell but caught himself just in time, luckily with minimal noise. One never knew the dangers surrounding the property of Voldemort's estate. Most of the enchantments and spells were disengaged toward Death Eaters, but, all the same, that did not mean Voldemort was not hiding something up his sleeve.

Beside him, another wizard walked so low that his entire torso was bent. Alaric Maud was a handsome brunet German, but he had come to England in the early 1980's looking for something better than what he'd left behind. Unfortunately, he had met up with Voldemort one fateful night at a local tavern, and Voldemort had instantly taken a liking to him. Irony was such a bitter thing, it seemed. Draco hated it as he did so many things now.

Quickly, quietly, they surrounded the house, and then Moriarty signalled one of the wizards to go up to the door. The poor man's screams ripped through the air as he attempted to push open the door only to have his hands, feet, and every other appendage ripped off by an invisible force. Draco gulped as he looked at the carnage, but he neither nor anyone else moved to help; instead, they all watched with hard eyes as the man fell.

It was obvious that Voldemort had protections. With extra caution now, two more Death Eaters hurried to the door with a nod from Moriarty and cast a disarming spell on the place where the dead wizard had stepped before pushing the door open to reveal the familiar interior of the house.

Draco, along with everyone else, advanced, and he was one of the last in. He needed to stay behind the rest in case something happened--he was the one solely responsible to retrieve the orb if everyone else failed.

At the time when they had been planning, Draco had wanted to be able to free his family and volunteered despite the very real chance that he could die in the process. Death Eaters had been killed for far less an offence. Now he was not so sure about his decision, but he swore he would go on with it.

The small group wandered down a darkened hallway lined with portraits of legendary purebloods and weaponry. They were so nervous that no one was aware of the banshees until they heard the screams.

"Don't listen!" Someone screamed in warning just seconds too late.

Instantly, a dull film slunk across his eyes, and around him several Death Eaters dropped dead. Their faces were sick looking and grey, contorted in an expression of pure pain, hands still raised to their ears as if to ward off the sounds even in death.

A pounding throb that he instinctively knew was his heartbeat slowed down minimally, making him panic. Around him, green-skinned banshees resembled ruinous angels coming from the pits of hell with their flowing black hair and empty, bottomless eyes framing a mouth screaming silent sorrow.

Thinking quickly and taking the person's warning literally, Draco pointed his wand at himself and whispered a Deafening Spell. Immediately, to Draco's great relief and his very life, the screams stopped to be replaced with a heavy silence. He was safe from them, at least. After all, he could only be harmed by them if he could _hear_ them. If not, then they were harmless. He still did not know who had yelled the alert, but it was not important.

Apparently, the Death Eaters around him caught the idea, but by now most of the damage was done. The petrified banshees floated in the air. The nearly translucent cords binding them shimmered.

Draco looked away. They had to hurry before Voldemort discovered them, and the chance of that was becoming greater by the minute. Taking the initiative to move on, Draco waved his hands to get their attention and signalled them to fan out and search.

'Quickly,' he mouthed with a hard look in his eyes. He had a feeling most of them would not be coming back.

As the rest of the Death Eaters fanned out, Moriarty, himself, and another Death Eater whose name Draco did not know hurried to the door they knew leaded towards Voldemort's inner chambers. If nothing else, at least the other Death Eaters would prove to be a distraction.

As Draco took the Deafening Charm off, he wondered when his father was going to get here but shook his head. He had no time to worry about his father; he would get there if, no, _when_ he did.

A loud sound like an explosion accompanied by screams came from the walls and Moriarty whipped around, searching wildly.

"Come on, hurry!" he ordered sharply.

Draco instantly sped up to a jog as he followed Moriarty, who, being in Voldemort's inner circle along with Lucius, knew the house better than anyone. He was taken by surprise, though, when suddenly the floor under them started to ice over.

He skid uncontrollably, trying to gain his balance. His hand went to the wall and was instantaneously rubbed raw of skin on stones as sharp as broken glass. He hissed, pulling his hand back to him, and hurried to catch up to Moriarty, but he seemed so far away all of the sudden.

In front of his eyes, he watched the hallway expand and stretch, curving around to make a corner and pulling the other two Death Eaters out of sight. He tensed further in fear as he heard a compound scuttling growing louder and louder…like the sound of insects. He felt something hit the back of his neck, out of reflex turned around, and ran even faster.

He swore as he slipped on the iced floor and scraped more and more skin off his hands and wrists, but he kept himself up. Behind him, Raethyns (fiery demons made of shadows and who-knew-what else) flitted across the walls. The gravity did not weigh them down, and in a child-like dream, Draco seemed to run slower and slower.

He tried to fight it off. This was what they were trained to do: they would drag wizards down agonisingly slow to be eaten between their saliva-dripping jaws. However, before that he would probably be torn into little bite-size pieces like a bloody steak.

The thought of becoming a human fillet spurred Draco on, and he fought violently against the curling blackness that was trying to invade his mind and shut him down. For a few moments it seemed like he would not succeed but he pushed harder than ever, the effort making his breath come in pants, and then, finally, the darkness appeared to back off and sink back to the Raethyns. Draco breathed a short-lived sigh of relief before he ran even faster: just because he had fought them out of his mind did not mean they could not still kill him.

He racked his brain frantically for any spell or curse that would possibly help, and then a light blinked off in his head.

"Disinaporus!" Draco shouted over his shoulder, aiming his wand back and hoping to hell he had hit something.

Lady Luck was on his side, and he heard a noise like sand bursting out into a cloud as he ran. He did not need to look behind him to know his aim was on target. He shouted the spell numerous times before he finally found the end of the seemingly infinite hallway, and he turned left on instinct.

On the other occasions Draco had been there, he had never actually travelled through Voldemort's house, and he knew he was rapidly becoming lost. It scared him more than the creatures behind him as he streaked through room after room of dusty furniture and half-hidden statues that he had no recollection of. He could not afford to be lost, yet he was.

His heart beat a rapid, uneven tempo in his ribcage. He thought if it were to pump any harder, it would surely explode and cave in his abdomen.

Draco could not believe his luck when, through his peripheral vision, he caught the sight of a familiar room purely by chance. He skid to a halt and bolted through the door of what was actually one of Voldemort's meeting quarters that Draco had been in when he had been giving his assassination assignment.

He ran past the engraved marble fireplace, moving quickly and surely now that he knew where he was going. Hopefully, Voldemort had not had the intelligence to cast anything too impairing on the room.

He made his way through the hallways as fast as lightning. The Raethyns were still hot on his tail, but so far Draco had miraculously managed to keep out of their grasp, which was becoming harder and harder by the second.

A sweat drop slid down the base of Draco's hairline, and he flicked his tongue out, tasting salty moisture on his upper lip. He was in good shape but definitely not enough to be running from hell-bound demons.

At first, he did not know what was happening when he suddenly heard unearthly shrieks reap through the air. Draco cringed but did not cover his ears. He looked back to see the Raethyns writhing in agony on the threshold of an archway Draco had run through, howling as if they were being torn apart from the inside. They gave Draco one last burning look and turned on their haunches and fled back down the corridor from whence they came.

Shaking, Draco took deep shuddering breaths. His every sense was alert now; the tiny hairs on the back of his neck practically surveyed the direction of the air waves when he moved. He swallowed, vaguely noting past his anxiety that his throat was sore and throbbing from his panting.

Immediately, even as he was still catching his breath, Draco studied his surroundings.

He knew where he was--the inner junction of the house itself far below the top floors. He was in what could be called the dungeons but was definitely more like an underground fortress, complete with stone walls and secret passages. At the moment, he was standing in what was the entrance hall to the lower floors.

He breathed a sigh of both relief and anxiety as he realised that the Raethyns had been dissipated because of the protections surrounding the room. He hoped he was not triggering any curses as he walked towards the door that he knew led to the main chambers.

"Draco!"

Draco whipped around as he heard his name and feared the worst, but to his relief he spotted Moriarty and the other Death Eater from earlier running towards him through one of the other subsidiary chambers connected to the hallway he was in.

"Where have you been?" Moriarty said harshly.

It was more of a statement than a question. He did not bother waiting for Draco to respond before he pointed towards the corridor he had just come out of.

"There's at least ten or fifteen Dementors down that way."

Draco automatically turned his head to look at the now sealed and fully closed entryway, thanks to the other Death Eater. It would not keep the creatures away for long though.

Draco nodded. "The orb is still where you indicated before, correct?"

Moriarty nodded his head affirmatively. "Should be."

Draco did not even bother answering as he strode towards the binary doors armoured in triple-layered defence curses and good old-fashioned steel. He could feel the magic radiating off the metal as he neared, and he slowly put his hands out, palms facing the doors, and stopped. He turned his head as if listening and closed his eyes in concentration.

One of the reasons Voldemort had wanted Draco especially as a Death Eater was because, unbeknownst to everyone else but his family and the Dark Lord himself, Draco was a psychosomatic conjurer. This meant that he was far more powerful than most wizards, with the envious ability of extremely strong and unsurpassed mind abilities that combined with his innate magic. Unfortunately, his delicate mindset also made him far more susceptible to the few violent and often brutal mental curses that could be successfully performed by only the most powerful of wizards--and Voldemort, for one, loved to break into his head.

As he stood silently, he could almost see the trip spells on the doors displayed on the inside of his eyelids. The doors were practically cross-wired from corner to corner in spells threatening more harm than a Vampire, Dementor, and Raethyn combined. He opened his mind and allowed his magic to search out.

There, that green line: a Burning Hex. The red: a Mind-twist Curse. The blue: death by suffocation.

Carefully, he wound through the other signatures fluidly, contaminating each one until they actually glowed to the other Death Eaters. His eyebrows scrunched in intense focus as he twisted and manipulated the curses on the doors. It was like tightening a guitar string; magic could only stretch so far before it broke.

Finally through all the strain, there was at last a break, and with it, all the others loosened and broke within seconds.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief and opened his eyes and backed away from the door before opening it to reveal Voldemort's inner chambers. Moriarty and the other Death Eater quickly followed suit as he walked in the room, careful not to touch anything until he knew the dangers.

He whispered, "Lumos," and looked around him quickly but spotted nothing that caused alarm.

The circular room was bare of anything but a round table in the centre. The portraits on the walls were devoid of landscapes or people, so there was no one nor nothing there to inform Voldemort of their intrusion.

There was, however, something twinkling just above the table.

Sweat ran stickily down Draco's neck and trickled lazily along his spine, but he wasn't warm at all: in fact, he was cold as ice. The tips of his fingers twitched as he palmed his wand, ready to aim and kill in a heartbeat if necessary. He was terrified. True, he had at one time been slow on the duelling uptake; however, now he was almost quicker than his own father.

"Malfoy…"

Draco looked at Moriarty stonily.

The stocky brunet gestured toward the glowing in the centre of the room. His eyes flickered nervously to and fro, searching the perimeter for any intrusions.

"That's it."

Draco nodded once and then turned back around. He walked as close as he dared to the light. A slight humming gradually filled the air as he got closer, and he slowed cautiously as the orb itself came into focus. He almost had to shield his eyes as he studied the flowing silver, purple, and black smoke twisting and disappearing in and out of sight within a clear glass sphere.

They had found the Burning Ball.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Draco's heart leapt to his throat and he thought for a moment he had been hit, but he swung around when he heard the scratchy, harsh voice screech through the muffled silence.

His eyes connected with those of his aunt Bellatrix, still the most faithful to the Dark Lord. Behind her was a group of loyal Death Eaters. Draco swallowed, pain and fear radiating through his body from a curse he had not heard, but luckily most were unaware he had been hit at all.

Moriarty and the other Death Eater were on the ground, both dead within a single second. Moriarty's head was turned in Draco's direction, staring sightlessly through dead eyes that were already clouding. He did not have time to regret the death of the assassins.

"You look surprised, _nephew_," Bellatrix spat from her place at the head of the group.

Draco's eyes snapped to her face. Her lank, bedraggled hair had once been shiny and sleek as had her eyes been cunning and clever, but now they were filled with a crazed frenzy. The sallow skin of her cheeks stretched unsightly as she sneered.

"Did you really think you could pull this off? The Dark Lord will have your head for this, and I intend to collect tonight. Narcissa should have killed you when you were born."

The robes she wore were midnight black, the colour of bloodied and feasting leeches. They swished when she strode closer, stepping neatly over the two bodies.

"Such a sickly child," she purred, lifting a finger under Draco's chin.

He glared at the woman, if that was what she was anymore, and felt his stomach twist with revulsion and disgust.

"You're despicable," Draco sneered. "You're even worse than me. Are you so mad not to realise your _Lord_ is going to fall? I hope I'm there to see him drag you down."

_Wham! _

Draco was not prepared for the blinding slap. He reeled backwards but caught himself before he touched the orb, fingers stilling just a few centimetres above the surface. He winced as his head was yanked back by his hair. Bellatrix was in his face, her vile breath blowing as scorching and pungent as a crematory furnace.

"You had better hope you're even alive after tonight, wretched bastard!" Bellatrix screamed at him, pulling the strands in her fist tighter.

Draco grimaced and lunged out wildly with his fist, cheering silently when he heard the whoosh of breath leave his aunt. She let his hair go and staggered back. He dodged her stunned form, just missing her flailing arm striking out for him. Instantly, spells and curses lit the air, but the room was so dark they could not see much of Draco but a blur of blond hair.

"Get him!" Bellatrix shrieked.

She pointed towards him, and Draco swore before ducking under the sudden onslaught of curses his way. A whiz of white-hot magic sizzled past his head, and he smelled the acrid stench of burnt hair.

He reached out for the orb still floating innocently in its nimbus of light. He did not have time to worry about the consequences of touching it directly as he swung around, cradling it in his arms like a child.

"Don't hit the orb!" His aunt commanded. "Get him, but don't let him shatter the orb!"

'Shatter?' Draco thought as realisation dawned on. Of course! No curse nor spell could be used on it for fear of damaging the magic contained inside, so the only way to free it….

"Fuck you!" Draco yelled defiantly as he threw the glass sphere as hard as he could towards the stone ground.

"No!"

Bellatrix shouted a Levitating Spell, and for a second Draco thought she actually might have succeeded, but after what seemed like an eternity of suspense, the orb finally fell to the ground in slow motion…and exploded into a million shards.

Everything came back in a colossal outburst of motion, and Draco had to squeeze his eyes shut and clamp his hands around his ears at the harsh, blinding light. A thousand angry voices shrieked simultaneously; it was worse thing Draco had ever heard. It felt like his ears were bleeding.

He felt more than heard the magic leaving the room one by one to go back to the people to which it rightfully belonged, and then wonderfully, Draco felt like he was whole again--his magic was back.

Draco could not hear the frenzied yells of the other Death Eaters, but someone grabbed him from behind before he could recover. His eyes snapped open to witness the last vestige of spiralling smoke leave the room before settling on Bellatrix's hate-filled face leering at him.

"You spiteful brat, you're going to get what's coming to you. Stupefy!"

Draco had just enough time to spit in her face before the spell hit him.

----------

The next time Draco awoke, it was to a blur of grey shapes, harsh laughter, and a splitting headache. The inside of his mouth tasted like cotton and iron. The metallic taste was blood, he realised. His body hurt everywhere, and his right arm throbbed with such pain that he instantly knew it was broken. He was just surprised they had not woken him up for the beating.

He did not know where he was, but his wrists and ankles were shackled with heavy chains, and he was upright. It did not take a genius to realise he was chained to a wall. He tried to move his arms and could not stop the groan at the pain that shot through his nerves from the movement.

"Awake, Malfoy?"

Draco opened his eyes and saw Ciarán Byrne, one of Voldemort's most fanatical mercenaries and self-proclaimed sadists, leaning against the wall of Malfoy Manor's dungeon. Draco almost cringed at the prospect of being in his own house, in his own dungeon, and awaiting his fate.

Almost as if reading Draco's mind, Ciarán smirked.

"Scared, are you?"

Defiantly, Draco raised his chin proudly as he answered in a clear and mercifully steady voice, "I'll never be afraid of you."

Ciarán's attitude turned solemn and menacing in a second. His eyes flashed as he growled, "You should be."

Draco snorted but did not get the chance to answer as the door leading to his cell suddenly swung open. In walked another Death Eater, a brute-faced brunet whom Draco vaguely recognised, holding a rolled-up piece of parchment toward Ciarán.

"Voldemort approves, he just says not to damage him _too_ badly--" he glanced over at Draco's already bruised and bloody form hanging from the wall; "--and Bellatrix sends her…love."

"Love, my arse," Draco grunted, but no one caught it. He glared at Ciarán when the sandy blond turned to look at him but behind his bravo, Draco was worried about just how the hell he was going to get out of this. Whatever 'this' was.

"Bolton," Ciarán addressed the other Death Eater.

Bolton looked at Ciarán expectantly.

"Tell the others to come down now, would you?" He asked in mock politeness as if this were all just a dinner party. Bolton nodded and left the room promptly, shutting the steel door behind him with a clash of metal.

Draco stayed silent as he watched Ciarán smirked at him maliciously, purposefully trying to rile Draco up for a fight that he would surely lose. He felt blood trickle down from a drying cut at his hairline. He clenched his fists as he waited for what was to come.

The minutes passed maddeningly slow, but it was not long before Draco heard the tell-tale footsteps echoing on the iron steps leading to the room.

"You're going to wish you were dead." Ciarán promised just as the door opened again to reveal a slew of four or five men.

Some men he did not recognise, and others he knew were a few of Voldemort's favoured. One by one they filed in silently, each stone-faced and cruel to the eye. Draco forced down the instinct to cower as the door shut with a final slam.

"You can begin."

Draco did not understand what Ciarán meant for only a fraction of second before the first of the fists and kicks came flying his way.

He bit his lip as someone punched him in the gut hard enough to make his spine hit the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and tasted blood as his right arm was twisted and he bit through his tongue. Bloodied spittle flew when his face was punched to the side, and a knee thrust to his groin.

The pain was so thick that he could taste it like a bitter spice in the blood that ran down his throat as thick as Polyjuice Potion.

Over and over the blows came: Draco heard the sharp snap as one of his ribs gave out from the constant pressure and he could not hold in a whimper. He had been taught not to scream, just whatever he did: do not scream.

The back of his head slammed against the wall so loud the crack reverberated throughout the room. Draco saw sparks of colour explode like a thousand fireworks behind his eyes.

"Thought you could outsmart us, traitor? We found all of your conniving bastards and they're being slaughtered right now," Ciarán spat from his position standing just out of reach of the chaos in front of him.

Draco did not answer him; indeed he could not--more than one rib was broken now, and it was all he could do not to choke on his own blood.

"_Daddy_…" he cried almost silently, the word sticking in his throat. He was unheard among the grunts from the Death Eaters still beating him with fists of steel.

Slipping in and out of conscious now as the strikes continued to rain down on him, Draco almost was not aware of them stopping until someone forced his head up. His breath was ragged as he opened his eyes. Something cold ran down the side of his face, leaving a stinging, almost warm trail in its wake.

Ciarán grinned darkly, drawing blood with the knife he stroked down Draco's face lovingly, making a long slit down the previously unmarred skin and loving the dark crimson stain that smeared across his cheek.

"Oh, you poor thing," Ciarán cooed. It sounded almost heartfelt, but the cloying undertone of malevolence told otherwise. The statement came out mocking, sarcastic.

Draco bit back a groan and lifted his head to glare at the sadistic Death Eater.

"Do you know what Chinese torture is?" Ciarán asked conversationally.

When Draco did nothing but glare at him, he smiled.

"It was created by the Chinese obviously, and I'll tell you--they were very, very vicious in their punishments. This handy little knife I have here--" he twirled it in his fingers like a baton; "--is particularly small for a reason. See, one can stab another many times before he bleeds to death. It doesn't hurt as much as the Cruciatus curse, but it can be used much longer and eventually you'll _wish_ you were under a spell. Muggles really are quite cruel, you know."

He smiled nastily at Draco, who did not move a muscle.

Ciarán ran the tip of the blade further down Draco's cheek, taking in the barely detectable grimace as the tip pierced deeper through his skin.

"Yes," he said calmly. "I'll enjoy cutting your perfect skin. I always wondered how on earth someone of such despicable morals could possibly look as you do…but then, all whores do, don't they?" he smirked; "After all, we have no use for you other than to warm our enemies' bed, but you can't even do that anymore. You're so pathetic."

He brought the knife away from Draco's face, but the young man held no illusions Ciarán would leave as he pondered where he would strike next.

He was soon answered as the knife found its way imbedded in his gut. He could not hold back the shortened scream as the hilt was twisted, cutting a quarter-turn and back. A raw sound choked out as the knife was pulled back.

Draco felt moisture on his cheeks and knew it was not blood.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Ciarán murmured quietly.

Draco forced himself to lift his head higher, still defiant even in light of broken bones, knife wounds, and scorching agony that burned his nerve endings to crisps. His hateful gaze caught Ciarán's calm and patronising eyes as he whispered the two words he had said to his aunt, "Fuck you."

He felt the blinding pain from the blow that resulted from his words. His head hit the back of the wall again, leaving a bloody print where it lay. Ciarán lost all guise of innocence as he sneered down at Draco.

"No…I'll be fucking you, boy toy," he snarled into Draco's ear, "I'll be fucking you."

He was not lying.

--------------

Draco screamed again as Ciarán pounded into him.

Blood slicked his lower half, and his belly churned in agony as his muscles clenched unbearably. His knuckles were pressed white against the skin, most of them broken. He squeezed his fists tighter, gritting his teeth against the pain, but it did not stop the tears that escaped his strict hold. Gods, it hurt…it hurt worse than anything he had ever felt.

"Are you going to bow to me yet, pet?" Ciarán grunted in his ear, out of breath from the perverse pleasure he was deriving from this. Draco forced himself not to shrink away from the filthy, decrepit touch.

He tried to answer but some of the phlegm and mucus in his lungs came up to choke him. "No," he panted stubbornly when he stopped coughing enough to catch his breath.

Instantly, he felt the never-ending pain double in concentration and he cried out, almost on the verge of begging him to stop, please just to stop--even death was rapidly becoming preferable.

Warm salty tears streaked their way down his face in rivers, smarting the tissue in the numerous gashes he had on his face, neck, chest, even on the thin skin covering the shaft of his penis. Vomit pooled at his feet from where he had thrown up long before, hours, it seemed, and very possibly may have been. The foul concoction was cooling on his skin, the smell threatening to make him retch again.

The other Death Eaters stood around the wooden table that had been conjured up. Draco was bent over it, too weak to even stand on his own, and the Death Eaters watched the spectacle unfold with hungry and depraved eyes. More than one of them had tented trousers. Draco supposed with a feverish half-thought that he would probably be handed over to them once Ciarán was done.

The harsh, splintery wood dug into the sharp ridges of Draco's hipbones; he bit his blood-slicked lip as some of the larger slivers broke off in his skin. The blood covering his chest was not even red anymore. It was in such a copious amount that the blood was blossoming a velvet purple where it flowed from the wounds.

His head bounced against the hard wood, and he started sinking into the tempting darkness that he had been shoving off for what seemed like days. He panicked but could not seem to wake himself back up to the agony his body was under.

Suddenly though, just as his eyes were slipping shut, the body ruthlessly beating into him disappeared. He did not know if it was a mercy or a curse that it had ceased. Weakly, Draco tried to open his eyes, and he just barely succeeded.

He heard panting and his head was pulled back by his roots, but it did not hurt as much anymore. He supposed maybe his body was finally shutting down for good. He felt warm, sticky semen seeping down the backs of his thighs and wondered how he could not have felt the initial heated spurt.

Draco knew it was Ciarán as he said, "Time for a little mind game now."

Draco gritted his teeth, spitting blood on the floor at Ciarán's feet. "Play your games," he sneered past shredded lips.

Ciarán laughed. "Oh, my, getting feisty, aren't you?" His gaiety died down after a second to be replaced with a look equal in malignance. His angelic looks only furthered the wicked aura he radiated. "Well, we mustn't waste anymore time." He shot a toothy grin in Draco's direction before turning back to the half-circle of Death Eaters. "Damien, your turn."

Draco felt his stomach drop to the floor as he was sure that his earlier thoughts were right, that they all were going to take their turn with him, but the rather small, dark haired man who stepped up made no attempt to disrobe. Instead, he seemed almost subdued as he shuffled over to the bloody table. His eyes stared at Draco sorrowfully. 'Such a deep blue, so sad,' Draco thought feverishly.

He reached out to Draco and laid a hand gently on his cheek. Draco closed his eyes for a second, not caring if that very hand that seemed so gentle in that moment could next deliver a death strike; it was just so blissfully cool against the backdrop of sweat and tears.

"I am truly sorry…" he whispered to Draco, confusing him just before the flashing, pulsing images flew past his brain, burning and throwing him into a state of delusional nightmares. Hell in his own mind.

His raw screams started anew, but none of the Death Eaters, not even Ciarán, could summon up a laugh.

**End of Chapter One.**


	2. Imperfect Little Pieces

**Title**: System Discordia

**Author**: Eris Mackenzie

**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

**A/N**: This is just pretty much explaining where he is and why he's there and what has been going on since the end of HBP, so there's a lot of backtracking in this chapter. If you get confused, it's alright, there will be a little more explaining to come. For those of you who read before, the Infirmary scene has been bumped up to the next chapter because there was too many add-ons to fit it all in. I actually liked writing this chapter more than the original. It just felt like Harry was more of a normal guy (other than the fact that he is a wizard, etc., etc.) and had to worry about normal things along with those less mundane. Never thought I would have fun relieving all my times in Laundromats, but yeah…it was nice to write. Pretty pain-free. Review and tell me what you think!

This chapter is dedicated to my kittay, Binx.

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**Chapter Two: Imperfect Little Pieces of a Perfect Little World**

_Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow." –Mary Anne Radmacher-Hershey_

_-------------_

_**ATTACKS: CRIMINALS OR CONSPIRACY?**_

_By Lisa M. Dalton, reporter for The London Times_

_3 September 1996_

_Three more attacks have allegedly been confirmed as 'unrelated' by the British government in light of the ongoing concern of the public. The first attack occurred in an apartment building in Gloucester earlier last night, killing a total of 134 people including several children between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. Though there have been numerous reports of people appearing right before the attack in 'odd-looking dresses' and what witnesses described as holding 'short sticks,' the official statement from the Parliament was that the first attack was devised by a controversial underground drug ring operating out of the targeted apartment building. _

_The second occurred at approximately 7:15 a.m. this morning in downtown central London, resulting in 67 deaths and 113 more casualties. According to several witnesses, there was a recorded large bang like that of an explosion before dozens of black-garbed men appeared and proceeded on what appeared to be a high priority chase through the crowded subway system. Though the whereabouts of these men are unknown as of yet, the chief of London's police division urges anyone with any information to call this number: (999) 181-8976. _

_The third attack occurred just a half an hour after the second, this time targeted at the Prime Minister at his home estate. Luckily, the Prime Minister did escape unscathed and was escorted to a safe location by a police squad. There has been an obtained suspect, but as of yet, there are no further details as to the person's name. _

_For more details, see page A2. _

From his makeshift home in the small village of Godric's Hollow, Harry Potter swore softly and turned the Muggle newspaper to the next page. Familiar black-and-white pictures of people caught mid-scream in the burning wreckage of an apartment building assaulted him as he read down the column. The article he was going through was one he had read about three months ago and was smudged through with whorls of fingerprints, but he could not help but go through them again, as if he had somehow missed something important.

It was not as if he did not have enough to look over as it was. Harry had not had time to read through the last few papers that he had mailed to himself bi-weekly; he had been knee-deep in Horcrux leads that had all tragically ended in frustrating disappointment. The ones that he had read when now that he had the time, however, just proved what he knew all along: not only was Voldemort and his Death Eaters getting more bold, but they were going after Muggles, too--and the Muggles were starting to notice. Before long, Harry did not doubt that there would be mass rioting and panic if the government did not do something, and soon.

He sighed and dropped the newspaper down on the patched quilt of the hotel bed and rubbed his eyes. His glasses still got in the way; he thought absentmindedly about how he should get one of those I-Miracle spells. He had been reading through newspaper after newspaper for hours. The strain was starting to give him a migraine. There were two piles of newspapers on the bed, one Muggle and the other Wizarding. The similarities between the articles and stories reported in the two were almost frightening. Voldemort was hitting the wizarding world just as hard and relentlessly as he was chipping away the social order of the Muggle world.

Harry opened his eyes after a few minutes and stared blankly at the faded, flower-patterned wallpaper of the room, thinking. Lately, the attacks on both wizards and Muggles seemed to be getting…sloppy, almost as if they had lost purpose. It was not like Voldemort to be so spontaneous and erratic. He shook his head. Then again, maybe he was just getting paranoid--like most of the wizarding world was nowadays.

The main reason of this for most was because the underground wizarding world was churning and roiling just under the surface in light of mounting activities on the Dark side. The multiple recurring Death Eater attacks had made everyone worried but the sudden, seemingly smooth halt lately unnerved even the most grounded of wizards.

A major rebellion had been reported last week that was probably the reason for Voldemort's ever-growing insanity, but Harry had heard no information on it lately. The Daily Prophet had reported it as one of the largest benefits for the Light side of the war since the Aurors had tapped into Voldemort's plans and managed to stop him from mass murdering hundreds of school children in a place in Scotland, the name of which Harry could not recall.

Harry did not know the exact number of Death Eaters involved in the rebellion but he did know that it was a major, _major_ blow to Voldemort. The proof was when the wizarding world caught wind that Voldemort's forces were evacuated from both Northern Ireland and the southern part of England.

The coined 'Death Eater Rebellion' had the wizarding world up in arms when their homes and streets were suddenly flooded by curses, bodies, and half-dead Death Eaters. Granted though they were reluctant to the point of disgust, most of the Ministry and the common folk that were willing to help take in as many as they could. However, trials were still to be set up after the Death Eaters were well enough to appear before the Wizengamot.

Harry himself had grown worried about the troubling news, the unexpected action causing more thoughts to clog his brain than usual, but he had pushed it off with practise and focused his concentration on tracking the Horcruxes. So far, he had found only one, and that one alone had nearly cost him his life.

Dumbledore had been right when he guessed that Voldemort would have gone after another possession of Hogwarts' Founders. This one had been a prized tapestry of Helga Hufflepuff's, hidden away in the Founder's former estate in Scotland. The castle had been protected with more than just spells, there had been earth magic in near every tree and blade of grass growing within a mile radius that made it damned hard to even get close. A few trusted Aurors had helped break through the protections, though not without heavy casualties, and they finally made it into the ancient House of Hufflepuff.

Harry had, of course, been one of the first ones in once they managed to slip through, but the danger was not over yet. The castle seemed to have been bewitched to snare anyone of potential threat, and seeing as how every single one of them had been trespassing, they had been considered dangerous. Harry was lucky to have even found the tapestry at all, hanging oh-so-innocently on the wall of Helga Hufflepuff's private drawing rooms. He did not really remember much after that, just touching it and then a huge explosion that blew him backward, and then next thing he knew he was in Hogwarts' Infirmary. Despite the fact that he was no longer a student, Harry still continued to be treated as if he were one--medically, that is.

Harry took a small sip of bitter, black coffee and grimaced a little. The small Muggle inn that he was staying in for the time being had the crappiest tasting coffee in the world, but it sure did wake him up. Which reminded him, his monthly supply of Sleepless Potions were due to be picked up at Hogwarts that evening. He had taken the last one the night before last, and he was in dire need of it again.

Pomfrey was the one who actually brewed them--being skilled at potions was one of the many requirements of a nurse, after all--and though she did not approve, she still obliged by his wishes. Harry had not wanted to go anywhere and chance someone creating a stir by spreading rumours that he was addicted to potions and whatnot. Plus, as paranoid as it was, Harry just felt safer having someone he trusted brewing the concoction.

Harry sighed again after about fifteen more minutes and finally decided to give up on the papers, at least until tomorrow. Although it was nearly winter, the hostel was exceedingly hot (which, though he did enjoy to some extent, got a bit excessive after a while), and he felt grubby enough as it was.

He tried to remember the last time he had taken a shower and nearly blanched when he realised he had not taken one in…was it three, or four days? No wonder he felt so grimy. He took a despairing look around the room and, after taking in the piles of dirty shirts and trousers and the one or two odd socks strewn about, decided his clothes really needed a washing, too.

He got off the bed with a squeak of metal springs and stumbled over to the open bathroom door.

Weak, yellow light flooded the rather drab bathroom and reflected dully off the manila floor tiles when he flicked the switch. Whoever decorated had tried to make the bathroom as clean and sanitary looking as possible using mostly whites and creams to paint with, but years of dust, humidity, and grime just made the whole room look slightly washed-out and sickly. It was meagre, but there was working water, a shower, and a sink. Harry was not complaining so long as it served its purpose.

He did not have very far to walk in the small bathroom to get to the shower, and he twisted the knob to get the water going. He had not been here long enough to know how long it would take for the water to warm, but he had been in enough hotels and inns to estimate that it would take at least two or three minutes. While he was waiting, he unzipped the jeans that he had been wearing for two days straight and relieved himself.

Steam was starting to fog up the mirror when Harry looked into it. He winced a little at his reflection. Although his body was still a bit bony, awkward around the joints but still muscled enough to keep from looking anorexic, his skin was a pasty colour, and big, black circles were under his eyes as a testament to how little sleep he had been getting. His hair, still as unruly as ever, had not been cut since around September and had now grown past his ears; he flicked a few strands out of his eyes and made a mental note to get it trimmed.

He undressed and groaned when he finally got into the shower. Though the water was still a little lukewarm and the pressure was shot, it felt so very nice. He closed his aching eyes and turned his face into the slow jet. The chipped tub floor added an interesting texture to his tired feet, too, and he rubbed them absentmindedly against the grittiness.

The sound of splattering water drowned out his thoughts, and he was grateful for the temporary silence. He barely had time to sleep anymore; he was constantly searching, building up defences, tearing down Ministry rules, ploughing through documents and books, scanning through so many artefacts and damn near killing himself trying to follow through on leads. Hence the Sleepless Potions and endless coffee escapades, he thought wryly. He had become _very _close friends with that particular caffeinated substance in recent months. Thank little gods for small favours.

Eventually, Harry reluctantly forced himself to get out of his little piece of heaven , and he lumbered out of the bathroom into the bedroom. Fat droplets fell from his skin and made numerous splatters, but he did not really care that he was dripping all over the floor. It was not like the water was going to disintegrate the ceramic tiles or anything.

He flung the wet towel on the ground randomly when he was done with it. It was a cheap towel, one of those ones that were thin and rough before they were even used and just barely wrapped around his hips. For a moment, Harry wondered why he stayed in such crap hotels when he could afford a bloody four-star should he choose to. He shrugged mentally at this as he pulled his pants and then his trousers up. He really did not have a reason other than the fact that smaller places tended to attract less questions, and the less questions the better. Another bonus was that when he stayed in Muggle hotels, he had a less chance of being recognised, which was always a bad thing.

He glanced at the letter sitting on the table and recalled his thoughts before he had started reading the newspapers earlier as he tugged on the rest of his clothes. Harry had sent Hedwig on her daily run to the Order of the Phoenix--he did not trust anyone enough to tell them where he was--and had received some surprising news.

Number twelve Grimmauld Place, which had been the Order's headquarters for nearly half a year as Harry had given it up for use just as Sirius had done, had been deemed unsuitable for further use. The reasons why were purely for security and minor complaints, nothing even particularly serious, but there had been an unanimous decision for the headquarters to be moved to Hogwarts itself. So many students had already been taken out of Hogwarts since the death of Dumbledore so that there was more than enough room. Many of the Order also hoped that perhaps they could recruit more seventh years, within consideration of their age and education, of course.

Harry himself had not felt disregarded at any extent; if anything, he whole-heartedly supported their decision. He could understand why they would want to move, especially with the convenience of the castle's own magic and the closeness to the Order's leaders. And, if anything were to happen, such as another attack, the Order could react without wasting precious time getting there. However, this left Harry with the slight problem of finding something to do with the bloody mansion now.

Harry tugged on his grey track jacket before leaning over and gathering the small, scattered piles of clothes here and there. Luckily, he did not have many clothes to begin with (it was just easier to travel that way), so what he did have could fit quite easily in the small, white, netted bag he carried to do laundry. Though he liked a good Scourgify charm as much as the next wizard, every once in a while he liked to clean them the Muggle way. The small village around the hill that had once held his parent's home might have gone downhill since he had last lived here, but at least they had a Laundromat.

He hurried out down the stairs and out of the inn's door before anyone could say anything to him, not that anyone really would. A trail of cigarette smoke and chatter followed him out into the street.

As he strode purposefully down the narrow, cobblestone street, he went past one of the cars parked on the side. He thought, as he stole a half second glance at his distorted reflection in the chipped red paint, about how he would already have his driving license by now if he had been a Muggle. Now that was strange; imagine, the Great Harry Potter as a mere Muggle. That would be the day. All the same, it would be a whole lot easier just to drive somewhere instead of walking or, occasionally, flooing from place to place.

Harry had successfully passed his Apparition test the year before, but he disliked the squishing feeling and the fact that if he were to be splinched while on a lead, he would most certainly be--in the bluntest of terms--fucked. Also, Harry had a tendency to check in at Muggle hotels frequently enough that he would not want to be caught popping from one room to the next without warning.

Yeah, Harry wished he had his driving license.

There was a little silver bell above the door to the Laundromat (why, Harry had no idea) that tinkled softly when he pushed it open. He was happy to see that there was no one else there and set his bag of clothes down on a wobbly fold-out steel chair near the large front window. As he did not see the point in buying his own, he dug in his pockets for the change he needed to purchase the little boxes and bottles of laundry detergent in the machine bolted to the wall. He finally found the correct amount a few minutes later along with lint, an old candy wrapper, and a safety pin.

All-in-all, it took about an hour and a half for Harry to finish washing, drying, and folding his clothes. He was just tempted to throw the clean clothes into the bag he had brought them in and be done with it, but the cleaning ethics instilled in him from cleaning after the Dursleys for years adamantly refused, much to his annoyance and defeat.

It was chilly and near sunset when Harry left the Laundromat. No one was about in the small village in accordance to the weather. The crisp air that was trademarked to mid-November swept down the street and made Harry pull his grey jacket tighter, fingering his wand stowed in the front of his jeans. He was grateful again that the skies had managed to hold off on snow, as an unusual feat as that was. A rustle of dry leaves crinkled their way past Harry's feet to be lost in the gutter.

A sudden snapping noise like a twig breaking broke the quiet. Harry spun around quickly and instantly drew his wand, his breathing in a tell-tale hitch as he searched for danger. He frowned when he saw no one, and his eyes flitted around the corners and shadows for a flicker of movement, the flick of a robe.

However, he was bemused when he heard a small meow. He sighed as he realised what it was.

Harry chuckled self-consciously, shaking his head at his paranoia, and looked at the small black kitten curiously watching him by the kerb.

"Christ, you gave me a scare," Harry said, sounding much more relieved than annoyed.

He crouched down near the kerb and held out his hand. He did not really like animals, but it was just a kitten, not one of those demon dogs from hell that chased people everywhere they went.

"Here, kitty, kitty." He snapped his fingers gently once or twice. The kitten just looked at him like he was a two-headed ogre and stayed where it was.

"Come on, baby," he cooed.

Finally, after a few minutes, it walked cautiously over to him, wariness shining in its eyes. Harry wondered if it was possible for animals to even have such emotions; the notion of the kitten being an Animagus crossed his mind, but he dismissed it almost immediately. That would either be one hell of a shitty form, or a wizarding child genius.

The tiny cat sniffed his fingers, then rubbed its side against his hand. At this sign of acceptance, Harry gingerly picked it up, searching for a collar or identification tag. When he did not find one, he stood up from his crouch.

"Hhm…where are you from, little one?" Harry asked absentmindedly as he studied it. Its black fur was sleek but dirty and matted, clearly in need of a bath, and could almost fit in his hand. However, it did not appear to be sick, at least outwardly, and its lime-coloured eyes were clear and bright.

He frowned when he noticed it was shivering. Forgetting momentarily about fleas and ticks, Harry huddled the kitten in his jacket. The poor thing, it probably did not have a home, and it was so small, most likely hungry, too, by the looks of it…and with winter almost here….

Harry almost groaned when he felt his hero complex kicking in. No, no, he did _not _have the time, resources, or patience to take care of a kitten right now. He had enough on his hands; he was just managing to take care of himself, damnit! He could not -

The kitten meowed from its place huddled near Harry's chest and looked at Harry with its big eyes.

Harry bit his lip, debating. He could not just leave it there, but he could not take it with him. It was probably flea-infested and whatnot and, although there had been no signs saying otherwise, the inn he was staying at probably did not allow pets. He had managed to smuggle Hedwig in, but a kitten….

_However_, Harry thought with relief, maybe there was a pound (is there any such thing in England? That's what we call it in America, but it could be different) or something where they would take it in. Yes, that was it! He would take care of it just for tonight and then find a place for it tomorrow. There, simple.

Grateful that he had found something to do other than let it slowly freeze to death in the cold, Harry resumed his walk down the street. It was not too dark yet, but the temperature was steadily dropping every minute. The kitten shivered again, and Harry tucked it closer.

It took less than five minutes to get back to the Griddle Inn. Harry was grateful when he finally cleared the doors and the warmth hit him like a freight train, instantly warming his chilled limbs.

Careful to make sure the kitten was hidden, Harry walked past the dim front room to the stairs. There was a fire lit in the centre fireplace near the bar, but the lights were turned down low, giving the rather small room a cosy glow. For a moment, it reminded him of home, Hogwarts. He suddenly remembered the long chats with Hermione and Ron in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room; Neville would be messing around with the newest plants he had managed to find and Seamus and Dean would be busy with a game of Exploding Snap while Fred and George went about teaching Ginny how to best keep up her troublemaking.

Had anyone been around him, they would have noticed how the air suddenly got cold. But then, no one was.

When he got to his room, he was surprised to see that it was already 7:35 p.m. He shrugged a little and set his clothes down on his bed. Oh well, he still had time to eat dinner and go through some papers before he had to go to Hogwarts to pick up his potions. He mentally checked for his Invisibility Cloak and remembered that it was in his wardrobe, right where he always kept it.

He took off his jacket slowly, swapping hands to get his arms out, and laid it on the bed. Sharp, tiny claws dug into his sweater when he tried to put the kitten down, too. He swore softly when the tips scratched him none-too-gently, not enough to break skin but enough to sting a little.

"Come on," he coaxed soothingly. It seemed to calm the kitten, because it let Harry remove its claws from his jumper and set it lightly on the quilt. He brushed a bur off of the kitten's coat and frowned again. It really _was_ dirty. Perhaps he should give it a bath. He did not want it getting dirt all over his bed.

He sighed again; well, he supposed he could wait a little to eat dinner, couldn't he?

------------

To say the least, by the time he was done, Harry was not a happy camper.

Now he remembered why it was a bad idea to give cats baths--cats hate water. He had scratches all over his arms (despite the fact that he had worn long sleeves) to prove it. For being so small, it was a vicious little thing. Still, he had finally succeeded in washing the damned thing. He had also discovered by accident that the kitten was a _she_.

He wrapped the kitten up in a towel and rubbed it gently to dry her off as he picked up the phone installed in his room. He was hungry but did not feel like going downstairs, so he was just going to order up.

"Room service," came a disgruntled, slightly hoarse male voice.

"Um, yeah, this is Room 7. I'd like to know what is on your menu tonight, please," Harry said politely. The kitten started slipping out of the towel, and Harry quickly grabbed it again as he waited.

"Well, we just have what was served for dinner. Roast beef sandwiches, homemade vegetable soup an' bread, an' a fruit cup," the man replied gruffly. He sounded like he had either just woken up or was a smoker. Probably both.

Harry nodded absentmindedly as he listened to the man rattle off what was available. He had not expected a French buffet or anything; this was a small village, after all. Personally, Harry was not a picky eater and would eat just about anything that was cooked and was not magicked to dance around and sing songs. And even then, he could be tempted.

"Er, alright. Could you send that up, please?"

"Room 8?"

"Seven."

"It'll be there shortly."

The man hung up not a second before he stopped talking, and Harry put the receiver down with an annoyed look.

He glanced at the clock again, which read 8:18 p.m. He quickly calculated the time it would take for him to eat and head off for Hogwarts and guessed that he would arrive there a little after ten o'clock or so. It was not too late; Harry usually went to get his supply after dark. He just did not want to go during the day and chance running into Hermione or Ron or someone else he knew. It was not that he was estranged from them or anything, it was just easier to talk to them through letters and occasional visits rather than physical confrontations. Seeing them always brought up…emotions that he would rather not deal with at the moment.

They still were not happy that Harry had made them stay at Hogwarts; Harry had told Hermione that she should not waste her brains and future, and Ron needed to be there to help keep her stabilised. Hermione, as unhappy as she was, had grudgingly agreed to stay at Hogwarts for her final year, given that Harry would continue to write her every single day and visit every weekend. Well, Harry had written quite faithfully for a few months, but after a while, everything started piling up on him, and before he knew it, he had not heard from her in weeks. It pained him that he was forcing them away--even he could see that--but there was nothing he could do. He loved them both more than anyone else. He could not bear to put them in any more danger than they already were. Of course they worried about him being on his own, hell, everyone did, but as he was technically of age in the wizarding world, there was nothing anyone, including the Order and the Ministry, could do about it.

A knock on his door brought Harry back to the present, and he managed to detangle himself and the kitten and hide it away in record time. He made a small shushing sound as he shut the dresser drawer and then turned around.

"Uh, hi," Harry said, a bit too quickly as he opened the door. An overweight, middle-aged man stood holding a tray on which sat two slices of thick, sliced bread, little packets of margarine, and what he assumed was a bowl full of vegetable soup.

The man grunted unattractively and held out the tray. His stained plaid shirt stretched unbecomingly over his beer belly. Harry fought off a wave of disgust. He was unpleasantly reminded of Wormtail.

"Here's your order," he said gruffly.

Fighting the sudden urge to sneer at the man, Harry took the proffered tray and smiled.

"Thank you," he replied a little stiffly.

Harry watched as the man nodded curtly and turned around. Harry followed his movements until the worker had gone down the wooden steps before he finally shut his door.

Harry heard the small mewing sounds and set the tray down on the small table next to the door.

"Okay, kitten, hold on." Harry walked over and retrieved the kitten. He smiled a little at the way she clawed her way securely onto his jumper. The smell of the vegetable soup was spicy and made his mouth water; his stomach growled against his consent.

Retrieving the tray and sitting cross-legged on the bed while the kitten played, Harry noticed that despite the unsavoury look of the man who had brought the food up, the soup actually looked scrumptious. He took a bite of the bread and found out his assumptions were correct: the bread was freshly made, probably earlier that day. Well, Harry thought as he ate a spoonful of the thick soup, that was small town cooking for you.

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Harry yawned as he stood. It was just past 10:10 p.m. and he needed to get ready to leave. He had finished his dinner long ago; the tray, bowl empty and margarine packets still unopened, sat on the edge of the nightstand next to the bed. The kitten had thankfully fallen asleep after dining on the milk that had come with the meal. He stretched languorously, bending his torso this way and that until he heard his neck give a satisfying crack.

He went to the loo, washed his hands, and returned to the bedroom, heading for the small wardrobe. He fingered through his clothes until he found what he was looking for. In the back, hung up inside out so that Harry could see where it was, was his Invisibility Cloak. The material flowed like silk over his fingers as he pulled it out. He would not put it on until he got outside, where he would then Apparate to Hogsmeade; due to the fact that he could not just Apparate straight onto Hogwarts' grounds, Apparating to there was the next best thing. From there, he was to go to The Three Broomsticks and floo to whichever school fireplace was available for connection. Routine, as always.

He took one last look around and opened the door.

As Harry made his way down the steps, it was a bit more quiet than usual. Shrugging it off as a result of the cold weather, he stepped off the last stair and weaved his way easily past the unoccupied tables to the door.

The warmth was instantly stripped from him as he opened the door. Tendrils of cold air wound their way through his clothes and down his throat and nostrils despite the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt, jeans, a jumper, and a jacket over that.

Checking to make sure that the coast was clear, Harry flipped the cloak around and disappeared with a 'pop'.

**End of Chapter Two.**

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**A/N:** Yeah, yeah, I know I took forever with updating, but please forgive me (or if you feel the need to flame ;) and press the review button. I'll be muy muchos happy if you do!


	3. Colour The World in Red

**Title**: System Discordia

**Author**: Eris Mackenzie

**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

**A/N**: Much of this chapter has been kept the same as the original, but parts of it have changed. I just liked it too much to rip it apart and glue it back together. Please review and tell me what you think!

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**Chapter Three: Colour The World In Red**

_Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement. -Alfred Adler_

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There was a small rustle, a subdued crack, but nothing overt to announce the arrival of Harry Potter to the village of Hogsmeade.

The messy-haired boy shivered as he looked around and then started to walk past the old, dark establishments and odd nick-knack stand. It was just as cold in here as it had been in Godric's Hollow, making his fingers tighten around his Invisibility Cloak, and even more desolate. It struck something deep and sad within Harry to see the once happy, bustling village so dead and silent. Harry felt a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach like he had swallowed a rock, and he walked faster to get past the reminder of what he was supposed to fix. What he was supposed to prevent.

No one dared to come out at night anymore. The only reason Harry went around himself was because of his Invisibility Cloak. Somehow it made everything seem just that less intimidating when he could not be seen. Illusion was a fickle thing like that.

He came to the large building with the sign 'The Three Broomsticks' hanging above it. Madame Rosmerta was the only person other than Pomfrey and McGonagall who knew of his monthly visits, mainly because he used her fireplace. She was always accommodating, however, and kind, so Harry found no reason to complain about it. It was a privilege, he knew.

He knocked, taking down his hood to make sure she could see him, and, sure enough, Madame Rosmerta's aged but still very pretty face shadowed the little window for the briefest of seconds. A moment later, the door opened.

"In, quickly," she whispered, wasting no time in locking the door again as soon as Harry entered.

The inside of the pub was just as homey and warm as he remembered it. It was a welcome sight that at least that much was the same. The withered heads beside the coat racks were sleeping (if they could, that is) and silent as he walked past. Madame Rosmerta smiled at him just as he turned around, only his head still showing.

"So, how've you been, dear?" she asked kindly.

It almost surprised him to hear her ask him anything, usually she was silent, but Harry was even more surprised to see that she looked like she actually cared. He had forgotten what that looked like.

"Oh, um," he cleared his throat, "I've been alright. You?"

She led him along to the kitchens, where the fireplaces were as she said, "Bit o' this, bit o' that. Haven't been getting as many customers, but I reckon I'll manage. Doesn't everyone, eh?"

Harry pushed down a fit of guilt as she opened the door.

"Alright, here we are," she smiled. A lone, hearty fire danced shadows across the wall directly across from the door. She pointed to the little pot hanging from the holder beside the fireplace. "Floo powder's where it always is."

Harry nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Madame Rosmerta turned to walk back out into the front room, probably going to bed; Harry usually Apparated back to his hotel as soon as he flooed back to The Three Broomsticks. She paused for a second before shutting the kitchen door and said gently, "Be safe, young Mister Potter, be safe."

Harry smiled sadly. "I will," he replied softly. Madame Rosmerta just nodded and made her exit.

The grey floo powder coated his fingers like ash as he sunk them in. He threw it into the fire, turning it from a roaring orange to a cold, sparkling green in a second's flash. He stepped into the cool fire, careful to keep from opening his mouth more than necessary and clearly said, "Hogwarts!"

In an instant, his feet were lifted off the ground and suddenly he was hurtling through more twists and turns than a roller coaster. He made the mistake of leaning a bit too far out to his right; he winced when his the knob of his shoulder struck the edge of something sharp and hard, a brick or suchlike. Voices of all languages and pitches filtered through and flashed past him. He opened his eyes for the briefest of seconds and caught snatches of colour, texture, the elbow of someone's arm, or the flick of someone's brown, curly hair. His stomach was just starting to churn when he was suddenly flung out of the vacuum to land unceremoniously on his face.

He groaned mentally and picked himself up; one would think that after all the times he had travelled by floo that he would have figured out the mechanics of landing on his feet for once. His shoulder throbbed, and he knew without looking that it was sure to bruise.

Harry glanced around him to see what fireplace he had been hurtled out of this time and was met with the collected, organised, and neat office of Headmistress McGonagall. He shook his clothes off any excess ash and did not stop and let himself glance at the trinkets and empty space left behind by Dumbledore. He looked straight ahead as he all but ran to the stairs.

A chill ran down his spine and kissed the back of his neck as he wandered down the many staircases from the Headmistress's tower. The steps in the main juncture of the school did not move at night; they were as still and silent as the sleeping students themselves, or most of them anyway. His footfalls on the cold stone were muffled by his sneakers, yet the subtle noise sounded deafening in the wake of such complete silence.

Harry crossed at the third floor steps, and he made a right around the corner that led from the long hallway to the Infirmary. The blood red carpet softening the floor was stained a black scarlet, and Harry frowned as he caught sight of splotches dotting the fabric. He stepped in one accidentally, and it squelched against the bottom of his shoe. He did not stop to investigate, however.

Finally he reached the Infirmary, but before he walked through the main doors to the subordinate ones within, he was perplexed to see quite a few people, all in some state of disarray, hurrying about the Infirmary.

The room was in complete chaos.

There were at least ten or fifteen people on the floor, sitting on the beds, or limping under the helping arms of other people more able to walk. Harry heard the moans of the people as the uninjured Aurors and Hogwarts staff moved them about. There was an overpowering smell permeating the air that Harry did not recognise at first, but then he almost stumbled back as it hit him that it was the scent of blood.

"Hurry, Poppy! He's in bad shape. Tonks, grab that vial!" one of several Aurors called as he laid someone on one of the hospital beds.

Harry was surprised to see it was Kingsley Shacklebolt, of whom Harry remembered quite vividly from when he had helped break him out of the Dursley's house his fifth year. He was streaked with mud and what looked suspiciously like blood, and his robes were torn to shreds on one of the arms. Tonks, one of the disowned Black relatives, was also there, with her subdued blue hair covered in what appeared to be ash.

Tonks yelped as she tripped over something bulky and shapeless lying on the floor.

"Kingsley, catch it!"

Madame Pomfrey gasped as the vial flew through the air. Luckily, Kingsley managed to half lunge across the occupied bed and snatch it with skills to rival a Seeker.

"For Merlin's sake, Tonks, watch what the bloody hell you're doing!" the Auror snapped, obviously stressed out. It was no wonder. Harry wondered what the hell was going on--the room looked like a miniature field hospital.

"How are his vitals, Poppy?" Minerva McGonagall asked quickly. She was doing her part as well as she hooked up what looked like a Muggle IV and ran the clear plastic tube down to the bed. Harry still could not see who was lying on it from the headmistress and nurse's positions standing in front of the cot.

"Not good," Poppy replied hurriedly. She tied a rubber band around the person's arm and quickly cleaned the place where she proceeded to insert the needle. Her hands were bloody when they came away.

"I need the matricaria leaves now, Pomona--and get the echinacea in the cupboard behind you!" she yelled across the room to the herbology teacher who was currently conjuring a leg splint for another person who was lying on the ground.

Professor Sprout nodded frantically and hurried to the tall glass cupboard behind her. She opened the door, grabbed the correct ingredients, and magicked them over to Pomfrey, not even bothering walking over. There just was not enough time.

Harry heard an odd sound, like a flatline on a doctor show he had watched on the telly once, and he heard Pomfrey call McGonagall, who was now on the other side of the room doing Merlin-knew-what else.

"Minerva, we're losing him!" she shouted desperately.

"Oh, no, no, no," McGonagall said under her breath as she passed by Harry, narrowly missing him by a few inches. Harry's curiosity was burning to know who they were trying so hard to help.

A flash of light came from McGonagall's wand like a strike of lightning to the person's chest, which bounced, but his heart did not start up again. The head lolled and Harry caught a flash of blond hair that looked strikingly familiar, but he was so caught up in the drama that he did not see who it was.

"_Come on_," McGonagall muttered forcefully with an odd look in her eyes as she cast again, and this time, miraculously, the person started breathing again.

"Yes!" Tonks whispered as she watched. Harry was surprised to see most of the commotion had stopped in order to watch the centre of excitement, the bed McGonagall and Pomfrey were clustered around.

The room stank of blood and confusion, but it was slowly beginning to calm down. People with broken or entirely missing limbs were being herded off into another section by a couple of Aurors Harry did not recognise, and the burn victims (thankfully only about four or five) were being swathed with a salve by Professor Sprout. A few other people were still running about but it was only to get things that had been barked for by several people who had assumed charge.

Harry's attention was jerked back to the bed as McGonagall leaned down and helped Pomfrey roll the person over. The person's hand fell off the bed and something silver gleamed in the light. A ring with something engraved in it. Harry squinted his eyes.

_D.M_….

"Where did you find him?" McGonagall asked, looking back at Tonks and Kingsley.

"In the dungeon, still locked in a special holding cell. He's been there since the night of the attack by the looks of him," Tonks replied, a clear look of disgust on her face. "Those damn bastards had him eagle-spread on the wall."

"--Where is all this blood _coming_ from?" Pomfrey exclaimed as she tugged off the person's clothes. At first Harry thought they were red, but he soon realised that was his skin, not his outfit. His attire--what was _left_ of it, that is--was black, and curiously Muggle.

"It's…oh, my."

They looked back to Pomfrey as she gasped.

"Oh, my goodness…" She put her hand to her bosom as she took an involuntary step back. Her voice was weak as she spoke. "It looks like they practically tore him up…"

"Oh, Merlin," Tonks murmured. Her eyes grew wide as she, too, stared at the bed.

"Tonks, go get some towels. Quickly!" McGonagall ordered, the ever rational. However, even hervoice had an added element of astonishment.

As Tonks stepped out of the way, Harry had to bite back a gasp himself as he saw the person's back. There was not a single place where the skin was not in some form shredded or bruised or both. He looked like he had been whipped repeatedly. Some of the deeper wounds along his sides Harry could not identify. The skin near his shoulders and along his sides was either completely gone, or hanging off of his back in nauseating strips. Yet, as much blood as there was, Harry noticed a majority of the blood was not coming from his back…but lower than that. Harry gagged when he caught sight of the ravaged and torn bottom half of the person.

Pomfrey started healing immediately once she'd soaked up enough of the blood and other suspicious-looking fluids to see what she was doing. She shook her head as she pressed down on his back with some of the towels Tonks had handed over to her to stop the bleeding.

"Minerva, I'm not going to be able to do much unless I get that comfrey root to mix in with the rest of the herbs. The paste _will_ work, but I need it quickly or the lavender will have dried up."

"Where's the comfrey?" McGonagall asked.

"We're out of it; the other patients needed it so badly…" Pomfrey winced.

"Oh, wait, I think I have some!" said Tonks as she rummaged through her pockets and finally handed over a packet of small green leaves. "I needed to use it on some people earlier."

Pomfrey breathed a great sigh of relief. "Thank you."

She took the packet and dumped it into a stone grinder beside the bed, adding other plants and vials of liquid that Harry did not recognise including something that looked like orange oil. It gave off a very pungent scent that even he could smell from his hiding place behind the pillars separating the rooms. It reeked of peppermint and something more spicy that made his nose itch, and he fought off the eye-watering urge to sneeze.

The person on the bed moaned faintly when Pomfrey started applying the paste. Harry winced in sympathy as he heard the salve sizzle and wondered why it had to sound so painful if it was supposed to help. A tangy copper smell was added to the mix.

Harry stayed frozen as he watched Pomfrey take off the rest of his clothes. Each layer removed revealed new wounds and cuts and abrasions, so much that it almost made Harry (who had a strong stomach) want to gag at the sight. He wondered who on Earth had done this.

"Oh, no," Pomfrey frowned as she was suddenly zapped by a little electric spark that obviously came from the boy. "His magic fields are reacting to it and won't let me heal him….I'm going to have to wake him up."

"But Poppy--his mind can't take anymore," McGonagall said worriedly. Candlelight reflected off her cat-eye glasses as she looked down at him, whoever he was. There was an itch at the back of Harry's mind that kept burning at his thoughts, but the scene in front of him was so confusing and disorienting that he could not get anything straight, let alone guess at who the person was. He knew he should know who it was, but who it was, he knew not.

"I know, Minerva, but it's the only way I can heal him. He has to shut down his magic enough for me to at least be able to touch him."

With a reluctant look, the headmistress finally nodded.

"Alright."

With that affirmative look, Pomfrey pointed her wand to the person and said, "_Enervate_!"

The head shook for a second, and the fingers curled slightly, but then Harry heard sobbing breath being taken. The first words the boy whimpered were almost too faint to hear, but they floated over to Harry's ears seconds later.

"…please…just…kill me…"

'Oh, gods, I know that voice,' Harry thought numbly. His fingers tightened on the stone pillar. The itch in the back of his mind faded to be replaced with a pinch of icicles and numbness.

"_Ahhh_!" The boy breathed a moan that turned into a bloodcurdling scream as his nerves slowly became aware of the pain radiating through his body. The people in the room got intensely quiet, eyes all locked on him.

"_Please_," he begged, his voice cracking and sounding like he was crying, "Just let me die!"

The boy turned his head the slightest bit, and Harry was greeted with Draco Malfoy's weakened and bloody face. Disbelieving shock rooted Harry to the spot. The Death Eater's son turned dark himself was lying on the bed in a pool of his own blood, crying and shaking hysterically. His silver eyes were clouded by pain and confusion and did not seem to see anything at all. It was clear he did not know where he was or what was happening anymore.

Harry found he could not breath.

"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall tried to get his attention. It failed to work as Malfoy continued screaming.

"_Mr. Malfoy_!" This time, she at least got him to look at her. "Mr. Malfoy, you're at Hogwarts and you're safe now, but we need you to lower your magic. Do you understand me? You need to control your magic long enough for us to heal you." She spoke quickly, trying to get him to understand through his pain.

"I-I- oh, gods, it hurts, _oh gods_!" Malfoy tried to speak but it turned into a broken line. His voice became volumes of guttural cries and pure agony. For some reason, Harry had to bite back tears that stung his eyes. He was not alone--others were doing the same around the room.

"Mr. Malfoy! Draco! We need your cooperation to help you!" Pomfrey yelled over his pleading.

"Make it stop…please…just make it stop," Malfoy sobbed. His fists were so tight that his knuckles were white. Tears tracked through the dirt and blood splattering his face. There was a long line of crusted blood along the side, running from his forehead right above his left temple to his neck.

The sight of Malfoy so weak and devastatingly human stunned Harry to the core. He did not know what to think.

"Please, Draco, we need you to contain your magic long enough for us to heal you," McGonagall explained again. Her eyes were worried. She looked to Pomfrey, who mouthed '_A few minutes._'

A few minutes until what? Harry looked at Malfoy and then scoffed at himself. Malfoy was bleeding so badly that Harry knew exactly what would happen if he did not bring down his magic fields: he would die. And the Death Eater was showing no signs of lucidity.

Harry sighed and, with a feeling he was going to regret this later and absolutely _no_ _plan at all_, he stepped out from behind the pillar and strode into the room. He was halfway to the bed when he realised he was still wearing his Indivisibility Cloak. His sudden removal of it caused quite a few starts and gasps. He ignored them and pressed past someone who was standing in his way.

"Pot--"

He cut the surprised McGonagall off as he literally pushed her out of the way (desperately hoping she would not give him hell for it later) and quickly dropped to a crouch beside the bed.

"Malfoy, _Malfoy_, look at me," Harry said sternly, grabbing the former Slytherin's chin in his hand and forcing his head up. His wild eyes made a cold shiver run down his spine. "Malfoy, you have to do this. Do you want to die?"

It took a few eternal moments, but finally Malfoy shook his head slightly, wincing. His face was wet with tears that soaked Harry's hand.

Harry breathed a tiny sigh of relief. "Then do this for me. I want you to bring in your magic and keep it there while Pomfrey heals you. Do you think you can do that? Yeah?"

Malfoy nodded.

"Okay," Harry said. "Hold my hand, alright? It'll make it easier to have something to focus on." He grabbed Malfoy's clenched fist from the splattered covers, uncurled his trembling and bloody fingers, and threaded them with his own. "Now, concentrate."

It was maddeningly slow, with Harry getting more and more nervous watching Malfoy bleed out onto the hospital sheets, but finally the tension in the room was down enough to be bearable.

"Madame Pomfrey, hurry!" Harry exclaimed, still clasping Malfoy's hand tight with his own.

Immediately, as if she had been waiting for Harry's signal, the nurse hurried to the other side of Malfoy, grabbed the paste she had been spreading on him beforehand, and resumed what she had been doing. Malfoy bit his lip and whimpered as the paste sizzled. Obviously, it was putting him through more pain, but it was necessary to keep his wounds from getting infected.

"You're doing wonderfully," Harry murmured into Malfoy's ear, which was right next to his mouth anyway due to the fact that Malfoy's head was now halfway on his shoulder.

The former Slytherin gasped through his teeth when Pomfrey probed her wand in the lower parts of his anatomy. Harry knew Malfoy was probably going to despise him later for what he was seeing, but right now Harry honestly did not think he cared much.

"Merlin, there's so much damage…" he heard Pomfrey whispered to herself as she surveyed the torn skin. "Get me the minced nettles, someone."

"Ah, _hurts_…" Malfoy ground out when she placed the plant on his open wounds and started rubbing it in. He squeezed his hand so tight that Harry had to grit his teeth when he felt the small bones grind together.

"It's okay, Malfoy," Harry whispered.

Malfoy whimpered again. The hold his teeth had on his lip threatened to cut it. He started breathing rapidly, trying to squash down the pain. Harry reached out a hand to smooth Malfoy's dirty and mangy hair off his equally filthy forehead. Beads of sweat were starting to stand out on his skin. He was still crying, but not the chest-wracking sobs like before.

Harry did not know why he did it, but he pulled Malfoy's head up farther on his shoulder and cradled Malfoy's wet face against his neck with his other hand. He felt the blond's lips move as he again fought back a scream of pain. Well, at least now Malfoy could say he had one up on Harry; the Gryffindor had never been through anything half as physically painful as this.

"Okay, okay, only a little bit more to go," Pomfrey said. This reassured Harry somewhat, but he was not so sure about Malfoy.

Stitches appeared from Pomfrey's wand, and Harry frowned at this but then realised that it was probably an extra precaution in case the wounds opened again despite the magically knitting. Malfoy let out a noise like a squeal when Pomfrey started stitching up the deeper and more extensive wounds, and Harry yelped as he felt the former Slytherin's teeth nip his shoulder through his shirt. He bit his tongue before he could say anything. At least it was keeping Malfoy from screaming his head off.

"Alright, I've got most of the surface wounds closed, but as for your internal injuries…" She gave a grimacing expression. "Some of them are going to have to heal on their own."

She hooked up some of the IVs to bags of some clear substance and what Harry recognised as Blood-Replenishing Potion to help recount for Malfoy's blood loss. Malfoy hissed when she slid in more needles to the ones that were already stuck in his arm.

"You've got to rest, Malfoy," Harry murmured when Pomfrey nodded to him. If anything, Harry knew sleep was the best healer of all, but Malfoy was going to need way more than just sleep before he was going to get better, magical nurse on hand or not.

Harry thought this would help ease Malfoy a little with the prospect of a reprieve from the pain, but if anything he tensed up even more. He mouthed something unintelligible against Harry's neck, squeezing his hand harder for a brief second.

"What?" Harry frowned, looking down at him.

Malfoy lifted his face a little bit, too soon after his hasty retreat from the brink of death to do much more before he said, "Don't leave me."

Harry just stared at him for a moment, but then he looked around at the blood all over the sheets and the dirt and muck everywhere and the dark circles under Malfoy's eyes, and nodded.

"Okay, I'll stay," he promised. Malfoy's eyes instantly filled with relief, and he nodded.

Pomfrey walked over with a vial in her hand filled with purple sleeping potion, and tipped it to Malfoy's lips. He drank it down without too much trouble, although Pomfrey had to stop and wait for a few minutes when Malfoy choked and coughed violently before settling down again. Harry felt him lay his head back down on his shoulder. He was sure the other wizard was asleep within seconds.

"Potter?" Harry looked up a couple minutes later to see McGonagall standing at the end of the bed watching him with an unreadable expression.

"Er, yes, Professor?" Harry was uncomfortably aware of Malfoy's face smashed against his neck. He gently slid his head back down to the pillow and stood up.

When he looked down, he saw there was blood all over his white school shirt and his hands. He probably had it on his face too. Harry had a sudden flashback of the scene in the girls' lavatory. He had been covered in Malfoy's blood then too, but this was so much more different and so much more bizarre.

McGonagall was speaking to him, but when he looked back up, for one surreal second, he could not hear what it was she was saying. All he could hear was a heavy buzz ricocheting off his eardrums. A few moments later, however, it had disappeared.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Harry asked stupidly, more out of a lingering sense of politeness than actual curiosity.

McGonagall stared at him, studying him, for several seconds before she shook her head slightly. "Mr. Potter…I take it you were here for your potions, correct?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. Then I, uh, well, I saw what was happening, so I just stayed put for a while…"

"That's all as well," she said briskly. "I was going to send for you immediately anyway. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, there are Aurors at your hotel as I speak. Forgive me, but I had to give them the address of where you were staying."

Harry was, to say the least, incredibly confused. "What? Why?"

"Earlier tonight," she began, "we got an urgent message from one of our spies that apparently the Death Eaters had figured out where you were."

"But -"

"Yes, I know that you haven't stayed in one place for more than a few weeks, Muggle and wizarding alike." Harry had not told her that, but he was not surprised that she knew how frequently he switched residences. "Either way, once this was reported to the Ministry, Aurors were sent out to Malfoy Manor to apprehend as many of the Death Eaters as they could before they attacked Griddle Inn."

"Malfoy Manor?" Harry asked, still confused but not shocked that the old mansion had been used for such a purpose. He was a little befuddled at how the Death Eaters had found him; it was not that he hid himself particularly well, but he was always on the run. How they had managed to find him was anyone's guess.

"Yes…" McGonagall seemed to hesitate for moment, catching Harry's attention. "I'm sure you know all about the reported Death Eater Rebellion two weeks ago?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, to say this bluntly and as quickly as possible, Lucius Malfoy was killed. He was the leader of the Rebellion, and apparently He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thought it was prudent to use his former servant's home as his own little battle station."

"What?" Harry asked, surprised and dumbfounded. "Somebody please explain to me, because I have no idea what you're talking about. None of this was mentioned in the newspapers."

McGonagall sighed then looked at Tonks. Harry had forgotten she was even there.

"You wouldn't have read it in the newspapers, Harry," she shook her head.

"Just tell me what happened!" Harry demanded. He did not mean to snap, but the fact that they were all skirting around the matter made him feel like a child. "And just what the hell happened to him!" He pointed to Malfoy. He felt so out of the loop, and though he knew it was his fault, he still would not tolerate any more stalling.

"Harry, calm down," McGonagall commanded sternly. "We will explain it to you more fully, but right now I think you should get cleaned up." She gestured to his blood-stained clothes. "Tonks here will help to fill in some of the blanks, as will I, but at the moment I'm sure you can see that Madame Pomfrey needs some help."

Harry looked stonily at Madame Pomfrey, who was hurriedly dashing to and fro, handing people potions and salves and casting spells left and right. His annoyance at being left out quietly died at the determined look on her face.

He nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"No need to be, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "I would suggest that you get some sleep, but I can tell already that you won't until you get some answers. Tonks," she switched topics and turned to the Metamorphmagus; "will take you to the Prefect bathrooms to get cleaned up. I'm sure she'll answer some of your questions. The ones that she can't, I will as soon as I'm done. Understood, Mr. Potter?"

Harry could not do anything except agree. "Alright."

"Come on, Harry," Tonks said softly as she took hold of his elbow and steered him out of the room. As much as he wanted to stay and see what was happening, he followed without protest.

The hallways and corridors were silent as they walked swiftly through the school. Tonks was silent next to him. Her hand was still on his elbow, guiding him although he knew well where the Prefects' bathroom was. He had ever since Cedric told him, way back in fourth year. Harry shook his head, forcing his other thoughts away. Now was not the time.

"Alright, we're here," Tonks announced as she came to stand in front of the small portrait hanging in front of the entrance.

"Password?" The voice bubbled flirtatiously.

Harry looked closer and noticed that the portrait had changed. The rather coy and blatant mermaid that he remembered hanging in the interior room now hung outside the door. The frame was a little tarnished and the picture was water stained from its years in the bathroom, but it was still as good as ever. Harry managed a wan smile as the mermaid cooed at him.

"Wormwood," Tonks stated, pulling the mermaid's attention back to the task at hand. The mermaid giggled and swung her hair but nevertheless let them through.

"Okay," Tonks said as she swept through the familiar room. She grabbed a white cloth from one of the railings. "Here's a washcloth, Harry. Take your shirt off and wipe the blood that soaked through."

She tossed it to him and looked around for a second.

"Ah…" She grabbed a soap bar from the nearest sink and, with a small whip of pink, transfigured it into a plain t-shirt in an accidental or not-so-accidental Gryffindor red.

Harry smiled grimly as he recognised the colour but did not comment. He walked over to the sink and turned the facet on, thoroughly wetting the washcloth. With no qualms about Tonks seeing his chest, Harry slipped the sodden and bloodstained shirt off easily. He set it in the sink for now. Then he set to work cleaning the blood off the rest of himself.

First he wiped the blood smeared on his chest and stomach from his shirt. Somehow it had managed to get over quite a portion of his neck, some was even smeared on his cheek, and over his hands. He was surprised to see flecks of it even on his glasses. He spoke to Tonks without turning around as he wiped the spectacles clean.

"Tonks?"

"Hhm?" she hummed from her place leaning beside the doorway.

"I have a lot of questions that I want to ask you, and I'm not sure that this is the most comfortable of places, but I need to know exactly what happened." He turned around, slipping on the shirt Tonks had transfigured and drying his hands.

Tonks sighed but did not protest.

"Alright," she said more optimistically than her resigned expression stated. "We might as well, this is as good a place as any." She took out her wand and conjured up two rather wobbly wood chairs.

She gestured to the chairs; more like stools, really. "Sit."

Harry did as he was told, and he sat cautiously on the small, four-legged chair. He crossed his arms as he watched Tonks do the same. Once she sat down, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and looked at him.

"Where to begin?" she said grimly. She looked to the floor as she thought. "Well, let's start with the Rebellion, shall we? Now, keep in mind that this is only what the Order knows, so it might not be the complete picture…but here we go. From what we have found out, the Dark Lord had devised a way to make sure his Death Eaters remained loyal to him by creating a type of orb which contained a small but nevertheless significant portion of each individual witch or wizard that was recruited to his ranks. This tied them quite literally to the Dark Lord. Unfortunately, we're not entirely sure exactly what it can and cannot do because the orb made it almost impossible for our spies to pass the test; but we do know it was called the Burning Ball among many of the ranks."

"Why?" Harry asked. "What did it do if someone from the Light tried to join?"

"If the orb detected disloyalty to the Dark Lord, the containing magic itself would basically have the power to kill the people involved. The Dark Lord decided burning traitors from the inside out was the best way to go about it."

Tonks waited for what she said to sink in, and after a moment Harry nodded, motioning for her to go on.

"Well, a few months ago, one of our spies overheard a conversation between two Death Eaters about a group simply called _Silens Amicitia_, or Silent Alliance. Through a lot of digging, it was reported that there were three leaders of this group; Lucius Malfoy, Aldis Amherst, and Draco Malfoy."

At Harry's disbelieving gasp, Tonks paused.

"Silens Amicitia? But wasn't that the group that led the Rebellion?" Harry asked quickly. Tonks nodded, and Harry shook his head. "But, that's-that's impossible. I mean, Draco Malfoy, Lucius, they--everyone knows Lucius was Voldemort's right hand man before his imprisonment."

Harry cut off, dumbfounded.

"I understand. After all, the Order barely believed it, hell, I barely believed it, when we first heard. After Lucius was imprisoned, he predictably lost favour with the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord gave Draco a mission last year to kill Albus…" Tonks looked at him sympathetically. "But then I'm sure you know that already. The Dark Lord is not a forgiving person, Harry. He made it as hard on Draco as he could. I won't say anymore about that - I have a feeling you'll be finding out soon enough anyway."

Harry gave her an odd look but refrained from commenting.

"We don't know the exact reasons for the Rebellion," Tonks continued, "perhaps they had enough brains to finally see that their master was crazy, or maybe they had different motives, I don't know. You already read the aftermath of what happened in the papers."

"Hold on a second." Harry put up a hand as he thought through what Tonks had just told him. Her explanation fell in the empty slots in the newspaper stories enough for him to categorize and label the information in a few minutes.

"Alright…" he said slowly. "Tell me what happened to Malfoy."

Tonks took a breath. "Draco was found in the lower dungeons of the Malfoy estate in Wiltshire. He was kept in one of the special holding cells; we almost missed him because the wards deflected our search spells. From my guess, he had been there since the night of the Rebellion over a week ago. I don't have enough information to tell you anything else."

"And…and his father?" Harry asked difficultly as a sudden image of bloodied Malfoy chained to a stone wall flashed into his brain.

"Lucius was found in a field outside of a mansion in southwest England. We had assumed after we found Lucius' body that Draco was dead. It is a miracle that he's still alive."

Harry was just going to say something when suddenly, instead of words, a large yawn made its way out of his mouth.

Tonks smiled thinly. "Let's get you to bed."

"Where will I go?" Harry said through his yawn.

"I'll take you back to the Infirmary. The people there were injured Aurors from our ambush on the Malfoy estate, and they'll have been moved to St. Mungo's by now."

It hit Harry suddenly as he remembered that he had narrowly escaped being found by the Death Eaters at his hotel. All the information he had been told in so little time overloaded his mind for a moment, and he decided that maybe sleep would help him metabolise it all.

Harry got up, following Tonks' lead, and picked up his shirt. His trousers were speckled with droplets of red, but Harry did not care about that at the moment as he left the Prefects' bathroom.

"Ah, there you are," Madame Pomfrey said with a note of relief in her voice when she spotted Harry. "You two were gone so long that we were beginning to worry."

"I'm sorry, Poppy," Tonks apologized. "I didn't mean to take so long explaining."

Harry looked around as the two kept talking and noticed that Tonks had been right; most of the people were gone. His eyes narrowed when he could not find Malfoy either, and he turned back to the nurse.

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

For a second, Pomfrey looked surprised, but then she answered, "He's in one of the isolation rooms. He was so injured that he would be at risk of infection out here."

Harry automatically looked at the doors leading to the next section of the Infirmary, where four or five rooms were locked away from the public.

"Why didn't you send him to St. Mungo's like the rest?" he inquired.

Pomfrey said hesitantly, "We…weren't sure if that would be the best place for him to heal."

"You mean, someone might off him before he got the chance?" Harry did not need anyone's agreement as his eyes strayed to the arrival of McGonagall in the main Infirmary doors.

"Professor, is everyone from the hotel back and safe?" Harry asked immediately.

"Yes, Mister Potter, they are all safe and accounted for," McGonagall smiled tiredly. Harry let out a sigh of relief at McGonagall's words.

"Thank god," Harry breathed.

McGonagall studied him for a moment, then said, "I think you should get to sleep, Mister Potter; you look like you might fall asleep on your feet any moment."

Harry smiled dryly. "You don't look much better, if you forgive me saying, Headmistress."

"Ah," McGonagall smiled back, "but it's not use for both of us to suffer, now is it? For now, you'll be staying in the Infirmary until we can figure out somewhere else for you to stay. You understand that you may have to come back to Hogwarts for a while, correct?"

Harry sighed and nodded. It had crossed his mind at some point, as unhappy as he was with it.

"Alright, then. With that settled, I think we should find a place for you to sleep." At McGonagall's silent inquiry, Madame Pomfrey motioned to one of the only clean beds near the end of the room. Harry obeyed and lugged himself over to the bed. Many of the beds he passed by were bloodied or covered in unascertained liquids and soot. He gave one last look at the isolation doors before he sat down on the bed.

"Goodnight, Mister Potter," McGonagall said as he started to close the curtains around his bed. He noticed they were charmed to block out light and noise.

"Goodnight," Harry replied, "and thank you."

Harry saw McGonagall nod and turned back to speak with Tonks and Pomfrey before he closed the white curtain and laid down. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

**End of Chapter Three.**


	4. Standing on the Corner of Butterfly Wing

**Title**: System Discordia

**Author**: Eris Mackenzie

**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The Smurfs are owned exclusively by their creator and his/her company or establishment.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the Light? Post-HBP

**A/N**: I'd like to thank my reviewers. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and if you do, please review! I'd really like to see who is reading this and your opinions on where it is going. Also, I had to practically kill myself to write this. Today was the first day back to the education system, and I was tired as all hell, so appreciation for that would help a lot. Also, this is all unbeta'd, so I apologize in advance for mistakes.

--------------

**Chapter Four: Standing on the Corner of Butterfly Wings**

_Without being aware of it, you have a special face for each friend. -Unknown_

-------------

Harry awoke to the sounds of beeping. When Harry opened his eyes and regained enough brain power to remember where he was, he was confused to see that his bed no longer had curtains around it and that the room was strangely white.

Then he realised where he was: the isolation rooms. He sat up, shaking his head and wondering when and how Pomfrey had moved him without him waking up. Harry did not understand why Pomfrey would have moved him here, but he did not think too much on it. After a few moments, he finally figured out what the beeping was; he instinctively looked over to the only other bed in the room and caught sight of Malfoy's sleeping face.

The beeping noises were spells monitoring Malfoy's heart, breathing, blood pressure, and whatever else Pomfrey needed checked. The smell of blood and multiple potions faintly permeated the room, but it was not as overpowering now as it had been last night in the main section. Instead, it left a cloying odour that was almost sweet, like the taste of rotten strawberries.

Malfoy did not look as spiteful or angry as he had the last Harry had seen him, but perhaps that was merely because he was asleep. Harry frowned as he continued studying his face. One could plainly tell the suffering he had recently gone through from the lines and faint scars marring his face, the dark, bruising shadows under his eyes, and the frailness Harry never ever would have before thought to associate with Draco Malfoy of all people. He smiled dryly as he thought of how indignant Malfoy would be if he knew what Harry was thinking.

"_At least I don't look like a freak, Scarhead!" _he suddenly heard Malfoy's squeaky first-year voice say annoyingly in his head. He chuckled for a second, but then his grin faded as he heard another memory, the same voice but more tired and scared. Along with it was one he remembered well, one he still heard in his dreams.

"_Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."_

All semblances of normalcy fled his mind as his expression became equal to that of a stone wall. Dumbledore had sounded so sure, hadn't he? So blindingly oblivious to the dark side of people, the treacherous fault of seeing only the good in his students. But then Malfoy had asked a question, a question Harry asked _himself_.

"_How do you know?" _

Indeed, Harry thought behind his hardened expression, how did Dumbledore know? How did any of them know? After all, he scoffed scornfully, it was because of Malfoy that his death had occurred. It was because of Malfoy that hundreds of people were now dead. It was because of Malfoy that Dumbledore had left him.

Harry threw the thin covers off of him and slid off his bed. He walked silently over to Malfoy's bed. Looking at the damage close-up was even worse than he had thought. He forced himself not to wince when he saw the fist-sized bruises covering his bare chest, arms, and on the right side of his face. The rest of him (and most of the damage, to be sure) was covered by the hospital sheet.

Without knowing why, he reached out to trace one of the most prominent bruises on Malfoy's collarbone. It looked like a handprint and was dark purple, tinted blue around the edges. It looked like it had just been administered early yesterday. Or, maybe Malfoy had just been hit that hard. Probably the latter.

Suddenly, Harry felt Malfoy stir, and he jerked his hand back. The beeping sounds increased rapidly as Malfoy started coughing violently, great heaving inhalations that made his whole body convulse. Harry was alarmed when a thin line of blood started streaming out of the corner of Malfoy's mouth.

Harry all but flew to the isolation door, throwing it open and shouting, "Madame Pomfrey! Madame Pomfrey, I need you in here now!"

Harry was pushed aside as Madame Pomfrey popped into the room, answering Harry's call within seconds. She whipped out her wand and muttered something complex in Latin, and a list of wispy words streamed out of the tip of her wand. She shook her head.

The beeping now was almost a screech, and Pomfrey waved her wand again distractedly to silence the monitors. It went quiet, but now Malfoy's coughs and great, wheezing gasps sounded louder than ever.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, panicking a little despite himself.

"His heart's going into cardiac arrest," Pomfrey informed him in a clipped tone as she untied one of the pouches hanging from her uniform. "Rub this on his chest and hold him down while I cast," she ordered. She handed Harry a tin full of what looked like clear jelly, and Harry just stood there dumbly until she shrieked at him to hurry.

Immediately, Harry swung into motion. He wretched off the aluminium lid and dipped his fingers into the ice-cold jelly, spreading the clear substance all over Malfoy's bare chest. The skin under his hands felt cold, clammy. Harry did not know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of Malfoy's blue-tinged face; he thought insanely for a second that he looked like a human Smurf.

Pomfrey was muttering something quick and low under her breath, concentrating on the white light glowing at the tip of her wand. He noticed she was not doing the same spell as McGonagall last night. Instead, he realised she was focussed on slowing down his heart.

"_Cuore calmo_," Pomfrey soothed the spell over Malfoy's chest. The spell was actually visible. It looked like a flimsy, milky wave drifting out of the end of the nurse's wand to spread like a blanket over Malfoy's skin. There it sunk into his body, disappearing beneath his skin in a matter of seconds.

Harry held his breath as Malfoy's continued convulsing, but Pomfrey knew what she was doing. In a moment, Malfoy's movements started slowing. It was still about half a minute before he finally stilled, though it felt like years from Harry's standpoint. He heard Pomfrey exhale softly and realised she, too, had been holding her breath. It was only then that he remembered to breathe.

Malfoy now was laying still, but he was far from okay quite yet. His breathing was shallow as Pomfrey checked him over and added a stabilising spell to the numerous ones already helping him heal. His lips still had the bluish tinge like that of someone afflicted with hypothermia, and his veins showed clearly through the skin in his neck and arms. He had kicked off the blankets during his fit, and Harry realised off-handedly that he was naked.

"I have his vitals stabilised again," Pomfrey said haltingly. "But this is not good. A few more seconds could have killed him. You see how some of his wounds reopened?"

Harry looked down at the blood blossoming on the sheets Pomfrey gestured to and saw that, indeed, the deepest wounds had reopened despite the magical knitting and reinforced Muggle stitches.

"Is he-is he going to be alright?" Harry asked.

Pomfrey sighed. "He should be, Mister Potter."

"Should?"

"Well, obviously complications like this are to be expected."

Harry mumbled an unintelligible response and looked down at Malfoy's prone form again. He was jerked from his musings when Pomfrey said, "Your things have been delivered here by a couple of Aurors. They're outside."

"Oh. Okay," Harry replied. He had totally forgotten about the clothing, books, and suchlike that he had left in the inn after he had left.

Harry walked out of the isolation rooms quickly, feeling the protective wards around the room simultaneously cleanse him and allow him to pass through to the next room. There he saw that the house elves had been busy; the main section was as clean and spotless as it had ever been. He passed by the crisp, white beds and wondered how many other times things like last night had happened there over the years without a single unwanted soul knowing.

His things were in a large bag on the end of the bed nearest the door. Pomfrey walked past him to the medicine cabinet to fetch something while Harry sorted through his items. Most of his trinkets were there, all of his clothes, and then he felt something move. Startled, he jumped back a step before he heard a soft meow from the folds of a faded Weasley sweater.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed with a small smile as he realised what it was.

He had forgotten all about the kitten he had picked up yesterday outside of the Laundromat in Godric's Hollow. A tiny paw clawed its way through the opening in the bag, and Harry saw the tips of two fuzzy black ears popping out of the top.

"Mister Potter, what are you - a kitten?" Madame Pomfrey asked, dumbfounded as she came over to ask what the noise was to find Harry pulling the baby cat out of the sack.

"Yes, I forgot I found her yesterday. I left her in my room last night, and she must have crawled into the bag when no one was looking," Harry said as he took the kitten into his arms and turned to the nurse.

"Well, what do you plan to do with it?'

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I was going to see if someplace could take her in, but now…I suppose I should change and whatnot and get us both something to eat. I'm allowed in the kitchens, aren't I?"

"Of course," Pomfrey said. "I could have a house elf bring something up if you'd rather."

Harry shook his head. "That's alright. I can do it myself." He grabbed a quick change of clothes and made his way out of the large doors. "I'll be back in a little."

--------

"Master Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry turned in the direction of the squeaky voice with a grin on his face.

"Dobby!" Harry laughed as he caught sight of the bobbing house elf. "I haven't seen you in so long."

"Oh, Master Harry Potter, Dobby has not seen you either. If it is not too forward, Dobby would even say he missed you," Dobby whispered almost as if he was scared of being reprimanded.

Harry smiled and stepped closer.

"Of course it's alright," he grinned. "I missed you, too."

A soft meow caused Dobby to look suspiciously at the ball of black fur settled in Harry's arms.

"What is that, Master Harry Potter?" Dobby asked curiously.

"Oh, her?" Harry rearranged his arms until the tiny kitten's face peaked out, green eyes peering about curiously. "It's just a stray kitten I found the other day." Harry remembered his original intention of going to the kitchens and said, "I came down because I was wanting some breakfast, and I figured she was hungry, too. You wouldn't happen to be able to whip something up, would you?"

"At once, sir!" Dobby exclaimed enthusiastically. "Is there anything specific you is wanting?"

Harry shook his head halfway then stopped.

"Well, maybe something for her," he motioned to the kitten; "I'm not sure what cats eat exactly. Do you know of anything…?"

Dobby nodded. "Yes, I will find it myself, Master Harry Potter! Is there anything else you would like me to do?"

"No, just something for me. I don't care what."

"At once, sir!" Dobby said.

He bowed low to the ground before disappearing, as was his fashion, in a cloud of grey smoke.

Harry smiled softly and looked at the place where Dobby had been standing not two seconds before. He heard a clatter as Dobby apparently Apparated straight into the oven areas and caused a few pots and pans to crash. He shook his head amusedly. He had missed his impromptu visits to the kitchens.

He glanced around the rather large room. Copper pots and pans lined the walls, bunches of flavourful herbs hung from hooks on the ceiling as they dried, and there were four long tables exactly as he remembered them. The tables were aligned directly under the ones in the Great Hall just a floor above and the house elves would laden the tables with food before sending it up at the clap of a hand. He sat at the one closest to him, randomly noting it was Ravenclaw, and studied the gouges in the dark, polished wood as he waited for the food to arrive.

He did not have long to wait, it turned out. As Dobby waddled his way over to the table, Harry could not help thinking the house elf had really outdone himself this time. The silver platter was weighed down with every assortment of pies, sandwiches, and pastries imaginable, from bubble-and-squeak to welsh rarebit to pumpkin pasties. Harry also noticed a smaller tray was floating behind Dobby with several silver bowls, a pitcher of what he assumed was pumpkin juice, and a large gold goblet.

"Wow, Dobby, thank you," Harry said as Dobby set both down on the table. A golden plate and cutlery appeared in front of Harry.

"You are welcome, sir," Dobby replied cheerily. He pointed to the smaller tray. "Those are for your kitten."

"Oh! Was is it?" Harry asked as he peered at the meaty mixture and twin bowls of both water and milk on the tray.

"It is some fish with a small amount of celery and carrots. I asked some other house elves, and they say it is okay for kittens to eat."

Harry nodded and smiled. "Thank you. I'm sure it's fine." Sure enough, the kitten climbed over Harry's arm onto the tabletop, sniffing at the food, and after a few licks started to chew on the meat.

"Is there anything else you is wanting, sir?" Dobby asked one final time.

"No, I'm fine. Thanks again."

"You is welcome."

Dobby left, leaving Harry to eat his food in silence. Harry could not help a small moan of satisfaction as the raspberry strudel melted on his tongue; nothing compared to Hogwarts' many fine delicacies.

------

"Dobby?" Harry called after he had finished eating and thanking the other house elves for his delicious feast.

"Yes, Master Harry Potter?" Dobby popped out of nowhere and bowed. Harry felt a distinct disagreement with being called Master, but he knew it was no use to try and persuade Dobby to stop.

"Er, you don't have to, but if you could, would you possibly be able to take care of the kitten for a couple of days?" Harry asked. "I know she's not your responsibility, but I really need to get myself situated and I can't be watching out for her right now."

"Dobby would be very happy to take her!" Dobby practically squealed. "It would be an honour to watch Master Harry Potter's kitten. Oh, Dobby thanks you for giving Dobby the privilege."

Harry laughed at Dobby's enthusiasm.

"Are you sure? I mean, if you're too busy, I don't want to bother you."

"Oh, no, Master Harry Potter. It no bother Dobby, sir, Dobby assures you."

Harry smiled. "Thank you."

---------

Professor McGonagall was waiting for Harry when he got back to the Infirmary. His eyes flickered over to the isolation room doors for half a second unconsciously. Apparently Madame Pomfrey was attending to Malfoy; she nearly never left her post except for an occasional run for potion ingredients or if her services were needed elsewhere. The woman even ate her meals in the office rather than the Great Hall with the rest of the staff.

"Mister Potter?" McGonagall inquired as soon as Harry had made his way over to the bed.

"Yes?" Harry stopped in front of the headmistress.

"I see that you already have your things," she gestured to Harry's belongings on the bed; "The Aurors that were sent to retrieve you managed to clear out your room and sweep almost all of your magical traces before the Death Eaters got there."

Harry let out a relieved, "Thank god."

McGonagall nodded her agreement. "Yes, they got out just a few minutes before the Death Eaters Apparated to the inn. No locals were hurt in the thwarted raid, another small miracle in itself."

"So I can go now?" Harry asked. He did not want to sound ungrateful but he sincerely did not want to stay longer than necessary. It was too tempting.

An uneasy look passed over McGonagall's face.

"Mister Potter, I must ask you to please consider remaining here at Hogwarts for at least a couple of weeks. It is too dangerous for you to be going back out on your own so soon after a leak like that. We still have yet to figure out how they found out, but it doesn't look like we'll be breaking any new leads soon. If you should choose to leave in spite of the risk, you may do so. However, should you choose to stay, I'm sure we can find a room for you tonight until more proper arrangements can be made."

Harry bit his lip, internally debating. He did not want to come back, Hogwarts was another chapter of his life that he would rather leave be, but McGonagall had a very strong point. She was right in saying that it was perilous for Harry to be out and about even if his whereabouts were always kept on the down low. As much as Harry begrudged staying, he could not argue with her logic. He wondered briefly where he would stay in the castle.

"All right," Harry finally answered. "A couple of weeks, maybe three, but no more. I…I couldn't stay for longer than that."

He gazed up at her, and she nodded gracefully as she read the silent explanation in his eyes.

"All right," she echoed. "Two weeks. I will find a temporary place for you. I'll send a house elf to explain the situation when I'm done."

Harry bobbed his head.

"Until then…" Professor McGonagall smiled slightly, "you have some people who are very eager to greet you."

Harry did not have time to react to her meaning before he caught sight of a pair of heads peeking past the Infirmary door. His stomach sunk a little as he looked at the two familiar faces; he plastered on a bright smile and walked over.

"Hermione! Ron!" he said with fake cheer as he held out his arms.

"Harry! Oh, we haven't seen you in so long!" Hermione exclaimed in a rush of breath as she hurried over.

Harry was caught by surprise at the strength of her embrace. Her still-bushy hair tickled the underside of Harry's nose, making him fight the urge to sneeze. For a second, he forgot that this was exactly the reason he did not want to stay; it was just like old times when the Gryffindors would come to visit him from his many ailments during Quidditch season, and he sank into the familiar warmth.

"Hey, 'Mione," he said, this time with tenderness permeating his tone.

He let go of Hermione after a moment, and Hermione stepped back. Ron grinned at Harry but did not step forward. Harry smiled back at the unspoken rule of manhood; hugging was considered a big no-no unless they had just won a game. All the same, there was a affectionate feeling between them, and Harry understood what was not physically told.

"Hello, Ron," Harry greeted the redhead softly.

"How're ya, mate?" Ron asked merrily. "You're looking a little peaky round the corners."

Harry noticed that Ron had paled somewhat since the summer and his freckles stood out in a cluster on his nose. He, also, saw the small, thin, silver promise band on Ron's right hand, the twin on Hermione's, and with a small twinge witnessed again how much he was missing. Harry pushed the regret away before it could fog him over as he knew it would; after all, he had chosen to make it such.

"I'm doing as well as expected," Harry replied, thankful for Ron's reliably blunt commentary. "And you," he motioned to the rings; "I take it, have some news?"

Hermione blushed and beamed at Harry, uncommon for the usually brazen know-it-all.

"Well, it's nothing official yet," she rushed to explain. "They're just wizarding promise rings, quite fascinating really. Did you know that the rings were originally thought up by the Egyptians over 4,000 years ago? They would create rings or bracelets out of plant materials and then magic them to link the two wearers for a set courting period until a more binding spell, and usually a gold or silver ring, was placed over the wearers in marriage. Of course, there were certain conditions that make wizarding promise rings different from Muggles', such as the spell will only remain in place as long as the wearers are both faithful, have genuine love and affection for the other, and neither can go against the other or betray them willingly. Other things are taken in consideration after the marriage, and the spells are naturally different, but I have yet to research that all, and…"

She paused, then laughed a little.

"I'm getting off topic, aren't I?"

Harry laughed at her tone. It was often hard for the brilliant witch not to indulge her newest textual find.

"Just a bit."

"Sorry," Hermione apologized, "but it's just still so…"

" - Incredibly unbelievable that I'm promised to a witch who can't appreciate the fine art of pranking," Ron grinned.

Hermione shot Ron a look that sent Harry laughing again.

He sobered up when he caught sight of the bloodied shirt he had stuffed back in his bag. A sudden flash brought back the smell of metal, the slippery feel of Malfoy's cold skin, the look on his pale, dirty face. For half a second, Harry was almost positive he could hear the soft, pained moan fall from Malfoy's lips. The vision was gone as soon as it had come, and when he looked up it was to see Hermione arguing amicably with Ron.

"Just because Ginny was having a few friends over meant nothing." Hermione waved her hands around as if to prove her point.

"But Fred and George thought it would be funny!" Ron exclaimed.

Harry watched on confusedly as they continued on in much the same vein. He had no idea what they were talking about, much less any input on the matter, so he stayed quiet until Hermione turned back toward him.

"So…Harry, how-how have you really been?" Hermione asked. Harry frowned at the sudden change to this quiet type of concern. He noticed Ron was looking at the ground, his fiery hair hiding his eyes; he always did that when situations more serious came up.

"I'm fine," Harry said forcefully. "Why do you ask?"

Hermione pulled one shoulder into a miniature shrug. "It's just that we haven't heard from you in weeks. We can't send anything to you because our owls don't know where to go. The letters that we do manage to send, you barely write more than a few sentences in reply most of the time. We can't tell if you're really okay at all or not."

Hermione stared up at him with her tawny eyes, searching Harry's face for any clues to what was going on, how he was feeling. Harry diverted his eyes, knowing that was the only place she would find any answers. He had come to far to take down his mask now.

Though it hurt him to say it, Harry replied, "I'm sorry, 'Mione, I've just been really busy. I know that you watch out for me all the time, but you have to understand that I can do this on my own." He swallowed past a lump in his throat. "I mean, you guys are my best friends, but I _need_ to do this alone."

Harry ignored the painful inkling of knowledge that 'best' may not have applied anymore.

Hermione shook her head and went to say something when Ron spoke up. Harry looked in surprise, Ron did not usually do that, but then what did Harry know? Perhaps that had changed, too.

"But why, mate?" Ron urged. "You're not alone in all this. Even if you don't want to admit it, you can't do it by yourself. You need help to find the documents and Horcruxes, help figuring out how to destroy the damn things in the first place."

Harry sighed. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Harry," Hermione interrupted. "You run off on your own all the time, Harry, to the most dangerous places. You think we don't see that, but we do. I barely know what to say to you anymore because you won't respond. We love you, Harry, and want you to be here with other people who care about you and can help."

"Hermione," Harry said firmly. "We've gone over this before. I'm not coming back to Hogwarts. My uses are better out where I can actually make a difference instead of being stuck behind stone walls waiting while other people fight like I should be doing."

"But stone walls are also what protect you!" Hermione countered. "This castle is your safe hold, not a prison, you know."

"It is to me, Hermione!" Harry said angrily. "Why can't you just leave things be? I'm gone, and I'm not coming back! I won't!"

Hermione was silent after Harry's outburst. This was an argument they had had ever since Harry had decided to leave Hogwarts. Hermione could not stand the thought of Harry by himself; after all, she was the mother hen of the group. Ron was staring hard at Harry with an expression Harry had never seen before, and it bothered him.

After a few minutes of tension-filled silence reigned the room, he looked down and said softly, "I'm sorry. I just…I can't come back. You wouldn't understand."

"Harry, we would if you would just let us try," Hermione pleaded. "I, we both feel that we're…we're losing you, Harry. And I can't help but think we're right."

Hermione locked eyes with Harry and won the battle. Harry glanced over at Ron, who was still silent.

"Harry…is this about what happened during summer? It wasn't your fault."

Harry looked up sharply at the witch, eyes turning harsh and searching in a flash.

Hermione continued on, digging deeper. "You had no choice, Harry. That boy -"

"Was no older than me, Hermione," Harry's voice boomed low and dangerously, warning to drop the subject.

"But he -"

"Just drop it."

"Harry…"

"I said drop it!"

Harry's chest rose and dropped furiously, struggling to push off memories that were all too fresh. 'She wasn't there,' Harry thought, 'she doesn't know a thing about it.'

Hermione opened her mouth to try again when Ron put a hand on her elbow.

"'Mione, leave it go," he spoke gently in her ear. Hermione made a face indicating she wanted to further the issue but a look from Ron stopped her. Harry watched the exchange with a detached expression. Hermione closed her mouth and took a few deep breaths, closing her eyes and calming her instincts before she opened them again and looked over at Harry.

"Harry, whatever you do, remember that there are people who love you," Hermione said forcefully. "All you need to do is open up, that's all."

Harry looked at her hard for a few moments then nodded.

"I know," he said truthfully.

There was a loud bang to the right, and Harry turned to see Madame Pomfrey bustling out of the isolation room.

"The Infirmary is going to be given a clean down," the nurse said briskly as she wiped her hands on a grey cloth. "I suggest you, Mister Weasley and Miss Granger, leave before the house elves start. Mister Potter, you are to report to the Headmistress's Office; Professor McGonagall wishes to speak with you."

Harry nodded absentmindedly. Hermione looked like she wanted to argue but decided to follow Pomfrey's instructions at the last moment.

"Harry, just remember we're here if you need us," she said as she walked out of the doors. Ron stayed just a fraction behind. He put his hand on the doorframe just as he was passing through and paused.

"Yeah, Harry," he said softly, not turning around, "we miss you." Then as long as it took him to pause, he disappeared from view.

For some reason, that hit Harry harder than Hermione's reasoning.

Pomfrey noticed Harry standing stationary by the bed and said, "Well, go along now, Mister Potter. The headmistress is waiting."

"What? Oh, oh, yeah. Thanks," Harry replied distractedly.

He did not notice the sad smile on her face when he left the room.

Madame Pomfrey walked over to the window and glanced down to the bloodstained rag in her hands. The light from outside was cold, blue, grey clouds overhead that turned the colour a musky purple mix of shades. The poor Malfoy boy had woken up, shaking from effort it took not to cry out. She knew how much pain he must be in, his wounds were among the worst and most extensive she had ever healed. And he had asked for Harry Potter. She had hesitated before she told him that Harry had left earlier that morning, that she would try and have him stop by. What little hope there had been in Draco's eyes had faded and shorted out; he stayed quiet, not even a whimper or a gasp, as she had continued to clean and repair his wounds.

She shook her head and wondered when he would realize Harry Potter was never there at all anymore.

---------

"You called for me, Professor?" Harry asked as he strode into the headmistress's office.

His senses took in what he automatically labelled differently and felt a little squeeze on his heart. All of the spindly trinkets and silver thingamabobs were gone, cleared out, and packed away. The Pensieve in the open cabinet had disappeared, replaced with a random assortment of books on magical transfiguration, movement magic, and numerous others.

Professor McGonagall looked up at him from a letter she was writing. Her quill stilled, and she beckoned to one of the plush purple chairs in front of her desk.

"Do sit down, Mister Potter."

Harry did as asked and perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

McGonagall did not say anything for a couple of minutes as she finished whatever she was writing. The parchment was rolled up, sealed, and sent off as Harry watched.

"Alright," McGonagall sighed as the scroll disappeared at the tap of her wand. "I summoned you here to discuss your housing arrangements. On such short notice, I believe that for tonight you should stay in the Gryffindor tower. You'll find an empty bed in the seventh year boys' dormitory. Your belongings have already been moved there. For an extended stay, I have been looking into using the Room of Requirement for such a purpose. It is ideal for both your needs and ours. Do you have any objections to this?"

At Harry's shake of the head, she nodded.

"Well, then, I do believe that we have that taken care of. I have one more thing to discuss with you before you can go."

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Draco Malfoy," McGonagall answered firmly.

"Draco Malfoy?" Harry inquired confusedly. "What about him?"

"I need to make sure you have not told anyone he is here. That would make it very dangerous for someone of his predicament as you can imagine. If people knew where he was…"

She left the rest of the sentence to the obvious.

"No," Harry said quickly. "I haven't told anyone."

"Good," McGonagall replied grimly. "Let's keep it that way. If you don't have anymore questions, you may leave, Mister Potter."

Harry stood.

"Thank you, Professor," he said seriously.

McGonagall nodded.

He was almost to the door when he stopped in his steps.

"Headmistress?" he questioned as he turned around.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Harry bit his lip. "I was wondering just what I was going to do while I was here. I'm not taking any classes, and I can't exactly confer with the Ministry very often. A lot of the things that I do can't be done without leaving Hogwarts."

McGonagall was silent for a few moments as she thought, then she cracked a rare smile.

"The Infirmary always has a job or two to keep you busy."

**End of Chapter Four.**


	5. Processor of the New Age

**Title**: System Discordia

**Author**: Eris Mackenzie

**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The Smurfs are owned exclusively by their creator and his/her company or establishment.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the Light? Post-HBP

**A/N**: Okay, so not a lot of Draco/Harry interaction so far, but I want to let the story progress at a natural state, so hold on there. Also, if you read my stories, do try and review. It's nice to know they're being read at all. I have a request to make, too. I need someone to beta my stories as I've lost my other two over the summer. If anyone would be interested in the job, please review and let me know!

Sorry about the re-post, but a fan helpfully reminded me that it was Charlie, not Bill, who went to Romania. Thank you!

------------

**Chapter Five: Processor of the New Age**

_Angels of the love affair, do you know that other, the dark one, that other me? –Anonymous _

_-----------_

_He can hear his thoughts, but they are not his own. He does not know who, but he can sense something in the back of his mind whispering that he should know. Flashes of scenes flicker through his brain before settling on one of hurried steps rushing anxiously through the night. _

_The cold grey cobblestones rush out from under his feet in quick succession. Tonight is the night he and his father had been planning for months upon end. Nothing can go wrong tonight. Nothing._

"_Go to the left," a voice whispers in his ear, and he feels himself nodding. His hair brushes the collar of familiar-looking robes and tickles his cheek; it is soft, like powdered silk._

"_Are you certain?"_

"_Positive. And if I'm not, who's to tell?" the wind calls through the night, though he is not sure who spoke it._

_He looks over his shoulder to glance behind him; he thought he had heard something, but it must have just been the wind. _

"_But left is where the devil lies. Evil lurks along these corridors," his mind whimpers a warning too late._

_A blaring agony. The gut-wrenching feeling of his life being ripped out. Colours fade from his eyes. Green-skinned women. Banshees._

"_Don't listen!" _

_Pain. Pain everywhere, searing his nerve endings and scorching his eyes. His heart skips a beat. It hurts, it hurts._

"_Potter, what do you think you're doing?" _

_Malfoy is leaning against a window, his arms crossed and eyes staring out into the rain flushing the garden beyond the glass. The room they are in is dark and cold, made entirely of stone and outfitted in plush, old antique furniture. In the corner there is a desk, a small tea table sits by the north wall. There is no fire in this big castle, no warmth at all. Rain pounds on the window like pellets from a gun. Harry cannot tell where he is at, or when, or how he is suddenly there. _

_But he does answer._

"_Trying to save the world," he whispers with a hitch in his voice. The misery there is entirely his own.._

_Malfoy smiles bitterly. "Aren't we all."_

_Malfoy is gone in a heartbeat, and suddenly Harry is not in that room anymore. He is in a stone dungeon. He cannot see anything but light…crystal light glowing everywhere…and then, suddenly, darkness and pain, so much pain. So much pain that he screams, and his scar throbs a violent red and bursts and bleeds. But the blood on his hands is not his own. _

_It's Malfoy's._

_They are back in the girls' lavatory, where Harry had slashed him up sixth year with the Sectumsempra curse. Malfoy is kneeling in a pool of stagnant water and his own crimson blood, trembling uncontrollably and gasping past the blood streaming down his face and chest. His robes, black though they were, shine a whore's scarlet in the filtered sunlight. _

_Harry sees how hard Malfoy is shuddering but not from the pain. He is used to the pain. Over his confusion and shock, Harry hears himself repeating the same, "No-- I didn't mean to---" over and over again: a kind of mantra that does not matter because it does not change what happened. It does not clean the blood from the floor or close Malfoy's wounds._

"_See what happens when you try to save the world?" Malfoy asks. His lips are blue. "Do you see how everyone dies?" _

"_No-no, I didn't mean to--" Harry holds his hands out to Malfoy, to grab onto of him, to do anything, but they are suddenly too stiff to clutch anything but air._

_The blood around him is suddenly a flood, and Harry's stomach plunges at the sight of Malfoy's breath slowing._

"_Do you see how everyone dies?"_

"_--I didn't mean to--"_

_----------_

Harry jerked awake with a muffled gasp. He was face down in his pillow and had a couple of down feathers stuck in his mouth. He spat them out and sat up, shaking.

For a second, Harry thought from the soft, sleepy groan from the bed beside his that Ron had woken up, but he let out a relieved breath when Ron just rolled over. He thrust his head into his sweaty palms and sighed deeply, trying to get the squeezing around his lungs to go away. Flashing images of a silhouette, a dark, somehow cold house, and a black-haired woman kept flickering back and forth over his eyelids, but he could discern no order nor relevance at all. Overlying it all was a misty red that made no connection at all. If anything, it reminded Harry of blood.

One of the windows felt like it was open, but when Harry opened his eyes after a time to investigate the cold breeze that kept flapping his curtains, all of them were shut tight. Puzzled but too groggy to really think on it, Harry shook his legs off the bed and staggered to a stand.

He ran his fingers through his hair as he checked the time on his magically altered wristwatch, which read 3:24 a.m. Perfect, he thought sardonically, another late night was just what he needed. Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes for a few moments before he made his way over to the window beside his bed. He stumbled over one of Ron's floppy shoes lying randomly on the floor, and he caught sight of himself in the mirror, just a small, pale shadow with a blob of black hair on top.

As Harry leaned against the window frame, he wondered again at the fact that while the sight from the Gryffindor tower was not exactly spectacular, it was one that seemed to magnetise the eyes if one happened to look hard enough. The tower was high--one of the highest in the school, in fact--and faced west, overlooking the Forbidden Forest. He had not realised how much he missed looking at it.

The moonlight glinted coldly off Harry's glasses as he turned to look at the completely solid, overbearing mass of trees that seemed black and endless in the night. Indeed, there seemed to be no end nor boundary to the forest at all. There was an outlining of silver on the horizon, of what Harry did not know, and he found himself thinking of that exact same shade of grey in a certain blond's eyes.

No, Harry mused, perhaps they were not silver, or even grey. He had not really had the time to look very closely when he had blundered on into the Infirmary. After all, all of the blood and the pain had somewhat blocked out many of Harry's perceptions the night before. It was past midnight, after all, which technically meant it was the next day.

Harry was a firm believer that at times like this, in the dead of night, this was not night or day. This was in-between somehow. Nothing dared to breathe, no one dared to laugh in this sacrosanct dreamland. On nights when Harry was feeling particularly pensive, he felt almost like he was peeking in on something that Mother Nature kept secret, a part of the in-between that he was so privileged to be one of the few to know.

Of course, these were all ramblings of his half-asleep mind and so were not taken seriously. Neither were his less than mundane thoughts on Malfoy. Harry just could not stop thinking about the look in his eyes. Even now it gave him chills that just refused to go away. Not even the thick covering of his sweater could chase them from his body. And what of his thoughts that were sure to keep him awake long after everyone else was sleeping?

Harry felt the urge to scoff as he stood silently by the window with nothing on his feet but holey socks to keep the coldness of the stone floor from creeping in. He did not like Malfoy, he hated him in fact, but he could not stop the feeling he got every time he remembered that vulnerable look. It all came down to that bloody _look_. The one that said Malfoy needed him. Needed Harry. What a load of armadillo bile.

Then there was the matter of Malfoy leading the Death Eater rebellion. If it was as large scale as had been reported by the Daily Prophet, then it was one of the biggest blows to Voldemort that there could have been. It was definitely a score for the Light. But _Malfoy_ leading it? And what of his father, Lucius Malfoy? Harry knew that Lucius was dead. He wondered if the Aurors had told the youngest Malfoy yet. Probably not. Or, maybe they already had. Harry shrugged unconsciously at his own questions. For all he knew, Malfoy knew before anyone else that his father was dead.

Harry turned back to the beds when he heard Seamus cough, and he quickly moved from in front of the window. He cursed his bad footing as he stepped on Ron's shoe again, and it made a squeaky noise. Thankfully, it did not wake anyone, and Harry could breath normally after a few moments.

Shaking himself out of a daze, he went over to his bed, still deep in thought, to fetch his sneakers. He slipped them on and was halfway to the door when he doubled back and retrieved his Invisibility cloak, too. He decided that maybe a walk around the grounds was just what he needed to clear his head.

Harry did not encounter a living (or dead) soul as he exited the silent Gryffindor common room, nor on the long staircase leading down from the tower. Honestly, Harry probably could have stopped at any old alcove on the way down and thought, but he did not want to stop walking just yet.

His footsteps reminded him too much of the night before last with the way the soft padfalls echoed off the stone walls. He hugged the Invisibility cloak tighter around him as he shivered again when a cool draft ascended up the stairs.

He caught sight of a familiar stone gargoyle inlaid in the wall. Harry wondered for a second why his feet had led him to the third floor and not the ground floor as he originally intended, but then he realised he was on his well-worn way to the Infirmary. He bit his lip. Why was he going there, besides the obvious? Was he sure this was the most clever thing to do right now?

Harry thought as his body went on autopilot and kept walking, but he could not seem to come up with a reason why not. After all, what could it hurt? It was not as if Malfoy was exactly able to 'Avada Kedavra' him, now was it? Besides, he was just burning with curiosity as to whether Malfoy was still there or not. Harry knew that Malfoy most likely was not up and about, not with the kind of wounds he remembered seeing.

He rounded around the corner and frowned when he saw that the doors to the Infirmary were open. Usually they were shut, which did provide a problem for Harry every once and a while, but tonight they were cracked open a few inches, allowing the soft candlelight from within to spill out into the corridor.

Harry stuck his head in cautiously, afraid that he would find another situation like he had before, but to his relief he found nothing but quiet, undisturbed beds and metal trays. He slipped in silently through the crack in the door and headed for the isolation room.

Malfoy's bed was on the far side of the room, mostly enclosed by a white curtain that hung from a steel rail around the bed. When Harry neared, he could see how pale he looked, even against the sterile white of the hospital sheets. He expected to hear the beeping of the monitoring spells again, but there were none. In fact, if it were not for the actuality that he was lying in the Infirmary, it would appear as if he were sleeping peacefully in his own bed.

However, when Harry stopped just inches from the side of his bed, he saw that Malfoy was not as healthy as he had first assumed. Deep, purple bruises sagged under his eyes, and his skin had a sallow yellow tinge to it that looked unnatural. His hair, though as fair as ever, was greasy looking and splayed out on his pillow in a tangle of knots. Harry knew how annoyed the boy would be if he could see himself. From what Harry remembered, the blond had always been particularly fussy about his appearance, especially his hair. The fact that he thought Malfoy looked like he was wearing a helmet most of the time was of no consequence.

Harry did not know how long he stood there just watching the steady rise and fall of Malfoy's chest, but he finally stirred when he heard a noise in the direction of the doors. Panicking for a second because he realised there was no way out except for through said doors, he scurried to the opposite wall then calmed down when he remembered no one would be able to see him anyway.

Pomfrey walked in just as Harry stilled his movements. In her hands, she held a rag and a vial filled with a glinting ice blue liquid. Harry watched her movements, wondering silently how far along Malfoy really was.

The nurse went over to Malfoy's bed slowly so as not to make too much noise, then leaned over and shook Malfoy's shoulder.

"Ssh," she soothed when Malfoy made a distressed noise. "It's alright. I'm just giving you your medicine to help you heal. It's okay."

Malfoy's eyelids flickered rapidly before stalling. Taking this as an initiative to go ahead, Madame Pomfrey lifted Malfoy's head up gently and held the vial to his lips. Malfoy coughed at first, introducing the need for the rag the nurse had brought with her as some dribbled down his chin. He grimaced when Madame Pomfrey laid his head back down.

"Thank you," Malfoy rasped so softly that Harry had to strain his ears to understand it. He was shocked; never once had he heard the youngest Malfoy say those words.

Madame Pomfrey smiled softly and shook her head.

"There is no need, young Malfoy," she murmured.

She gently patted Malfoy's forehead with a clean cloth from one of the racks beside the bed. Malfoy's breathing had already evened out to the pace previous to being awoken, and Harry realised that he had already fallen back asleep. Madame Pomfrey picked up the now empty bottle and simply watched her patient with a look of softened pity before she finally exited, leaving Harry alone again.

Harry let out his breath when the door clicked closed but did not move back across the room. He stared at Malfoy absentmindedly, strange thoughts filtering through his head; thoughts of how and when and what really happened. Tonks had not gone into detail before and now he could not help wondering about the more extensive wounds he had remembered seeing. He shuddered after he recalled the gashes and tears far below Malfoy's back and shook his head. Harry may have wanted to know, but it was none of his business.

He finally broke his stare after long moments and decided he should leave; he had been there long enough already and he was still tired enough to get at least a few more hours' sleep. Harry shook his head and looked back to Malfoy's prone form just before he opened the door. Maybe he had been wrong after all.

-------

Harry's eyes opened blearily to the sound of ringing in his ears. With a subdued groan, he forced himself to wake up enough to turn off the alarm charm he had placed over his bed to wake up before the others and shook his head to clear the last of the sleepiness away. He yawned and after a moment opened the curtains.

His eyes instinctively scanned the room and concurred that his assumption had been right; none of the seventh year boys were awake. With a whispered "Dico vicis," the charm informed him was only about five o'clock ante meridiem. He rested his wand on his thigh and brought his hand to rub his eyes tiredly. 'Well,' he thought, 'now is as good as any.'

He stood, whispering a small Summoning Charm for his rucksack, and walked to the dormitory door. Making his way down the spiralling stairs, he reflected on how odd and yet stunningly familiar he felt going through his old common room. He shrugged it off and opened the portrait. As it swung back, he heard someone speak up.

"Why, hello there."

The Fat Lady's voice was loud in the quiet, and Harry winced at little at the noise.

"Oh, hello," Harry turned around politely. "How have you been?"

"I'm as well as a portrait can be, my dear," the Fat Lady shifted, ruffles of pink satin rustled. "I do hope you've kept clear of trouble."

Harry managed a strained smile. "I'm doing my best."

The woman in the portrait nodded sleepily as she started to doze off again.

"Just don't get hurt now, love," she said drowsily. "Run along now."

Harry nodded as the Fat Lady closed her eyes and quietly made his way down the tower.

----------

The water pounding on his skin felt wondrous. Harry groaned deep in his throat and tilted his head back to let the shower spray over his face. He shivered a little as his skin reacted with goose bumps in the rapid change from cool to warmth. He reached over to one of the shiny brass spouts sticking out of the wall of the shower stall and pressed the one labelled "shampoo". One of the things Harry had always loved about the Prefects' bathroom was that he never needed to bring his own supplies.

A soft fruity scent filled the dark marble stall, and Harry inhaled damply. His eyes slipped close in the still near-dark; once the sun started to rise the candles extinguished themselves, but it was still too soon for the sun to fully illuminate the room. He rolled his shoulders back, feeling the suds glide down his back, and reached again for a bar of soap hanging from a hook. Rubbing it between his hands to get them thoroughly lathered, he set about cleaning the rest of his body.

When he got out of the shower about fifteen minutes later, Harry was feeling significantly better. He felt more awake and clean and he could finally think clearly. However, now he was hungry.

Harry frowned as he though about it while combing his hair in the mirror. He did not want to go back to the kitchens nor did he want to take his food elsewhere to eat it. Finally weighing the risks of eating in the Great Hall, Harry decided it was still early enough for him to get in and out without anyone seeing him.

Sure enough, when he entered the Great Hall, there was no one there besides a few first years who did not recognise him. As he passed by the group, a couple gave him an odd look or two but did not comment and went back to eating after a few seconds.

He sighed as he sat down randomly on the end of the furthest table from the youngsters and a place setting instantly appeared before his eyes. Digging into the scrambled eggs and toast in front of him, he went about re-familiarizing the Great Hall.

Nothing much had changed, he noted, though he did notice that there was no longer a window above the High table where the teachers normally sat. He mentally shrugged at this and let his thoughts turn elsewhere. Unfortunately, his mind decided now was the time to think about the Rebellion, and his morning took a dreary turn. Harry still could not quite grasp on how Malfoy, _Malfoy_ of all people, had gone against Voldemort like that. To even have a notion of doing something like that would be more than enough to merit a torturous death: in fact Malfoy even being alive was a testament to miracles. He flickered back to what Tonks had told him about this orb…what had she called it? Burning Ball? Yes, that was it. Even Harry had to admit it was an ingenious way to keep Voldemort's minions in line; yet somehow Malfoy and his father had figured out a way to fool the system. He had a feeling there was more to this than met the eye, but he had no inkling of what it could be.

He was knocked out of his day dreaming when he suddenly heard someone exclaim his name. He jumped and turned toward the source of distraction - and saw with no small amount of dread that it was Colin Creavy. A small number of other students were clustered around him but Harry could not remember their names.

"Harry!" Colin said again excitedly as he hurried to the table where Harry sat.

Harry swallowed and forced a smile on his face.

"Hey, Colin," he said.

Colin skid to a halt in front of the table and said, "Oh, wow, Harry, I haven't seen you in months! How are you? I've been good, in fact I might be getting a contract with Moving Magic Photographers at the end of the year. Can you believe it?"

Harry grinned. "Yeah, Colin, that's great. Congratulations."

"Yeah, yeah," Colin replied, blushing rapidly. "It's no big deal."

He looked around and leaped to change the subject.

"Hey, Harry, why are you sitting at the Slytherin table?" he asked bemusedly.

Harry looked around. "I am?" he said confusedly. "Oh…I must have forgotten. I was, erm, really tired and just sat wherever."

Colin smiled brightly. "'Tis alright, Harry. Just don't let the Slytherins catch you here."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw someone holding a stack of books start to pass through the doors. He panicked when he realised it was Hermione. He looked at the giant clock above the doors and saw it was already almost 6:15.

"Er, hey, Colin, I've got to go. I'll see you around," he said hurriedly as he stood up and grabbed the small bag he had brought with him.

"But - Harry!"

"See you, Colin!" Harry called over his shoulder as he almost jogged away from the table. Unluckily, at the precise moment that he turned his head back around, he slammed right into Hermione.

"Oh!" the bushy-haired witch exclaimed as her books went flying every which way.

"Ah, sorry," Harry apologized quickly and bent to pick up the fallen texts.

"Harry?" Hermione said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Um, I was eating but I have to, er, go send a letter to the Ministry right now," Harry said off the top of his head as he set the books down.

"Can't you stay a little longer? I'm sure the other Gryffindors would love to see you. It's been so long."

Harry shook his head awkwardly. "No…like you said, it's been so long. I wouldn't know what to say to them anymore. Maybe another time."

"But, Harry -"

"I've gotta go, Hermione."

Hermione looked at him silently for a few seconds then nodded.

"Alright, Harry, do what you need to do."

Harry tried to smile but it might have come out a grimace.

"Yeah, I'll see if I can stop by later," he lied. "Madame Pomfrey needed me to help out in the Infirmary, so I might not be able to make it."

He started backing up, tightening his grasp on his rucksack, and waved when he reached the doors.

"See you later," he called as he passed through them.

Harry let out a relieved sigh that quickly disappeared when he saw hordes of other students were all heading towards him for breakfast. He quickly ducked out of sight behind a statue just outside the doors, avoiding being seen. He poked his head out when he thought most of them were gone and quickly scurried down the corridor.

He was not lying when he said he needed to mail the Ministry, but he had yet to actually write the letter. Although most of the people in the Ministry did not appreciate his digging about, in fact some of them actively tried to block him out, there was still one person he could count on.

Christoffer Grigore was a friend of Charlie's from his work in Romania and had proven a reliable ally. Harry had run into him one day while arguing with another Ministry official over some documents he needed to view. Christoffer had intervened and gotten the papers for Harry in a matter of minutes. After that, Harry and he had gotten to talking, and since then Harry had corresponded with him regularly. It was with Christoffer's help that Harry had been able to locate and destroy the fifth Horcrux. Christoffer had come across an ancient parchment describing it, and the power behind it. At first both of them had shrugged it off, believing Dumbledore's theory that Voldemort created a Horcrux from an item of each of the Founders, and Helga Hufflepuff had already been taken care of. Now, they only had two more to worry about.

Harry passed by the library then paused and reversed his steps. If he needed a place to write a letter, the library was as good a place as any. Despite Harry's absence, he knew Madame Pince would not bother him.

He pushed open the doors quietly, noting as soon as his vision was cleared that there was no one else besides himself there. He made his way to an ill-used corner, judging from the lack of light and stiff looking chairs, and sat down, pulling out a Muggle pen and a notebook. Using quills and parchment had somewhat been troublesome for Harry, so he had ultimately decided to switch back to more common Muggle methods.

He opened the notebook and found a page that had not been scribbled all over. The tip of his pen tapped rhythmically against the top of the paper while he thought of what to write. Finally, he started with a simple:

_Christoffer:_

_I'm sure you've heard about the raid on where I was staying. I'm fine. Contact McGonagall for details on my whereabouts. _

He stopped and crossed out 'McGonagall'; that would be too obvious. He bit his lip then a light clicked off in his head. Kitty was a nickname for the headmistress that few people knew, but he thought Christoffer would be able to figure out.

_Contact Kitty for details on my whereabouts. I won't be staying here long. I still haven't come across any information about the next item. If you have, fire call me. _

_H._

He studied what little he had written and nodded after a while. There was nothing there that would get him found out; it was as safe and discreet as possible. He folded the paper in half and spied a stack of envelopes on Pince's desk. He glanced around quickly to see if the librarian was around and quickly snatched on. He put the notepaper into the envelope, sealed it, and charmed it only for the intended recipient, labelling it simply "C. Grigore".

He left the library rather quickly. He had already figured out Hedwig was most likely in the postal tower, but he was not intending to use her.

---------

It was cold outside when Harry wandered out of the front doors, but there was not a winter nip to it yet. The air felt more like the beginning of frost and snow and cold, shivering nights, and Harry found that he should have brought his cloak.

The postal tower on the southwest end of Hogwarts' grounds was reserved specifically for owls to rest before they had to journey on, and Harry knew that Hedwig was currently stationed there. His sneakers squeaked on the ground with a noise that mixed with the soft hoots echoing out of the high stone windows of the tower as he neared it.

He sighed when he started climbing the many steps in the staircase leading up to the top of the tower. Luckily, they were not iced over or slippery with water, which always made it difficult for anyone to deliver their letters. The staircase was still very high, and Harry was slightly out of breath by the time he got to the top.

It did not take Harry long to find the snowy owl once he got to the coop. She was nestled in one of the perches close to the door, where most owls did not rest because of the chance that a human would walk through and disturb them. A couple of school owls flanked her, but Harry did not agitate them when he walked past.

Hedwig gave Harry a welcoming hoot when he stopped and lifted a hand in greeting.

"Hey, Hedwig, how're you, girl?" Harry said softly as he stroked her pure white feathers. He smiled when she nipped the end of his finger gently.

She just stared at him with her amber eyes and tilted her head.

"Yeah, I know. Don't look at me like that. I have to send a letter, but I'm not going to use you today."

When she hooted questioningly, Harry just shook his head. He walked up to one of the owls he had passed before and it stuck out its leg obediently.

After tying it, he said, "Ministry," and it flew off.

He sighed and gave Hedwig one final stroke on her feathers.

"I'll see you later, Hedwig. I have to go help in the Infirmary," he murmured, half to himself.

--------

For the next three days, Harry did indeed help in the Infirmary. Hermione and Ron had tried a few more times to coax a conversation out of him but always ended up leaving disappointed. Harry tried not to feel wretched when they stopped coming around.

Malfoy had been transferred from the isolation rooms to the main ward, but he had been kept out of sight. His bed was the last at the end of the Infirmary with a white curtain always firmly closed around it. One time Harry had tried to push it out of the way, but it would not budge. Shrugging it off as a security measure, Harry tried to push it out of his mind but somehow the thought of Malfoy would float back into his consciousness.

However, this night in particular Harry could not sleep.

As he wandered around the corridors, he again found himself thinking about Malfoy, wondering how he was doing. He still had not spoken to Malfoy since that night. He would not have known what to say anyway, Harry thought absentmindedly.

The notion of visiting Malfoy invaded his mind, and he went to dismiss it when he paused and thought about it. Perhaps the curtains would allow him past. Maybe, maybe not; Harry shrugged and turned down the corner to the Infirmary. At least it would give him something to do.

Harry opened the large wooden doors as quietly as he could and poked his head in. When he saw the coast was clear, the rest of his body followed and darted light-footedly over to the back of the Infirmary. He passed by the empty beds with his eyes focussed on one thing: the curtain that he knew shrouded Malfoy.

He stopped just short of the curtain. Sure he would be repelled like the times before, he put a hand out, reaching toward the barrier…and felt his fingers pass right through. Confused and stunned that the magical ward surrounding the bed would let him through, he cautiously placed a hand on the curtain. Nothing unusual happened, no spark or zap to tell him to get lost, and he grew in confidence, gradually pulling the drape back until Harry was greeted with the sight of Malfoy's sleeping face. Quickly ducking through the barrier and pulling it back to where it had been before, Harry hesitantly stepped closer to the bedside.

Malfoy stirred, and Harry jumped back, ready to bolt at a second's notice. He watched as Malfoy's pale eyelashes fluttered then opened to reveal sleepy, silver eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if the blond was confused, but the look was gone an instant later when he shook his head and sat up.

Harry held his breath and backed up as Malfoy slid out of the bed. He noticed the barely detectable wince Malfoy made when he bent over to stand up. Suddenly recalling the extensive wounds to his backside, Harry bit his lip in sympathy and watched as Malfoy walked over to one of the metal trays and poured himself a glass of water. He took a small, careful sip and put the glass pitcher back down quietly.

With a sigh, Malfoy set the glass on the tray when he was done. Harry noticed the rather spaced-out look he had in his eyes, like he was in deep thought. His long, pale fingers were beating a tempo Harry could not hear against the bed rail as the blond just stood there for a long while. So long was he stationary that Harry felt his feet going numb from standing still.

Suddenly, though, Malfoy moved and walked slowly toward the curtain and pushed it back. Harry watched, puzzled, as Malfoy strode to the window nearest his bed as if entranced by it. Harry knew the sight as well from here as he knew from the tower, so often was he here. What puzzled him was that Malfoy seemed to have the same habit of staring out of windows as Harry did.

Harry noticed the limp with which Malfoy walked. If he had not been watching him so closely, he would not have seen it. It was there, however, a slight tick in his left knee. Harry wondered what had happened there but then shook his head. There were some things he did not want to know.

For a long time, Harry just watched Malfoy stand quietly, grey eyes glued on the window and green eyes on the grey. Malfoy's fingers played with the sleeve of his pin-striped hospital pyjamas. The pyjamas made him look like he had first year--small, delicate, fragile. There was a stance there now, however, that betrayed all that. His breathing was slow and steady, and Harry watched his chest move up and down methodically as he remembered the cold feel of his skin when his heart had gone out.

The sight of Malfoy convulsing and writhing on that bed was one of the scariest things he had ever seen. It gave him a panicky sort of feeling deep in his chest when he thought about it. He felt much the same when he remembered all the blood Malfoy's body had pumped out. Malfoy was lucky he was a wizard; a Muggle would have died from the amount of blood lost, not to mention the shock his body had needed to handle.

Harry noticed that the sun was starting to rise, and he wondered how long they had been standing there. Hours, it had to have been. He saw the soft pink sunlight spill over the mountains and lakes onto Malfoy like vivid paint on white canvas, bringing life to his pale lips and cheeks. Harry tried not to think about how Malfoy looked so vulnerable all of a sudden, even more so than that night before. He looked so young, yet older than he should have just standing there, like a child who had to be an adult when he should have been worrying about ordinary things like dating and passing exams.

Harry looked away.

This was a war, after all, and everyone had to sacrifice something.

Malfoy strode back to his bed after a few more minutes, and Harry left the Infirmary just when Madame Pomfrey came in to check on Malfoy. He barely caught the cluck of her tongue when she saw he was awake.

**End of Chapter Five.**


	6. Tick Tocking Through Chinatown

**Title: **System Discordia

**Author: **Eris Mackenzie

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers: **SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing: **Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings: **Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary: **After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the Light? Post-HBP slash

**A/N: **Okay, okay! I know this chapter was supposed to be full of Harry/Draco interaction. Well…it's not. I needed to get in a bunch of scenes in this chapter and the interaction just got pushed back. I really am sorry, but it could not be avoided. Plus this chapter gave me a lot of hell because of a lot of external things happening in rl. First all of my files got deleted, then my workload increased substantially, then I got sick…Gah. : However, this chapter did exceed all of the other chapters in length, so a little appreciation would be incredibly nice. Which translates into PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, REVIEW. Also, I do not have the corrections from one of my betas, so I may have to take this chapter down and reload it again if there is any major revisions or mistakes he caught. Muchos thanks to my reviews already, and to Rob for beta reading my chapter and discussing my crazy ideas with me. :)

-------------

**Chapter Six: Tick-Tocking Through Chinatown**

_The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. --Martin Luther King, Jr._

---------------

The next day was chilly.

Harry clutched his jacket around him and shivered, vaguely noting the he would have to go to Diagon Alley and get some new winter clothes soon. The types he had with him were only suitable for late summer, early fall, and at a stretch midway through the latter. It was already well into the onset of winter, and he still did not have a simple cloak. There just were not enough hours in the day, he reasoned.

He glanced out of a vaulted window as he passed one of the inner courtyards. The trees were grey and barren of leaves; any day now would bare the first snowfall. He sighed and continued down the stretch of corridor.

He was on his way to the Infirmary again, and to be truthful it was getting a bit monotonous. Harry was starting to become antsy with nothing to do besides constantly re-label potion bottles and file papers. He felt like he was wasting time: he should be out helping with what he could, researching or traveling or _anything_. He snorted as he entered the third floor corridor. The fourth day in and he was already going out of his mind.

He crossed the remaining length to the Infirmary, pushed them in, and stopped dead at the scene in front of him. In a semi-circle stood the headmistress, the nurse, and another man in Ministry robes. Two Aurors flanked either side of Malfoy and were handcuffing his hands behind him. The blond was resigned, a look Harry did not understand. They melded the shackled closed with a twirl of white light that twined around and sunk into the metal, fusing the two sides together.

"What's going on?" Harry demanded as soon as his brain relayed back to him.

Malfoy did not look up at Harry's interruption and continued staring at the ground. The two Aurors exchanged a look with the Ministry official, who shook his head minutely and walked over to Harry, stopping a few feet in front of the seventeen year old.

"My name is Algernon Bleckley." He held out his hand, which Harry blatantly ignored.

"What are you doing here?" Harry questioned.

"I am the executive head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he explained. "We are apprehending Mister Malfoy to be taken to a disclosed location."

"'Disclosed location'? Where?" Harry asked.

"I am not at liberty to say."

Harry glanced at Malfoy but could determine nothing from his body language.

"Apprehend," Harry tried another tactic. "That means you're arresting him," he looked back to the executive; "On what charges?"

"Mister Malfoy has been charged with crimes against the welfare of the wizarding community including but not limited to arson, pillaging, willful use of the three Unforgivables, and the torture and murder of over two dozen people," Bleckley rattled off in a manner reminiscent of Professor Binns. "I do believe that qualifies for several lifetime sentences in Azkaban."

"Azkaban?" Harry's voice perked up.

Immediately, a look of unease passed over Bleckley's face, and he fixed his gaze at a point just over Harry's shoulder. Suspicion began to bloom in Harry's mind at this unexpected reaction, and it was like casting Lumos in a dark room as it hit him.

"That's where you're taking him, isn't it?" Harry accused.

Harry did not need a verbal answer to know he had nailed it right on the head.

"Are you mad?" he said before he could stop himself. "He won't last five minutes in there! And he hasn't even had a proper trial yet!"

Bleckley looked around uncomfortably and said, "Mister Malfoy will get a trial when the Ministry has sorted through some recent complications."

"And that will take how long?"

Bleckley hesitated. "Anywhere within the range of three to four months."

"Three to four months?" Harry repeated incredulously. "You might as well give Malfoy the Kiss now and save the trouble of feeding him."

"I have my orders," Bleckley said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"You can't be serious."

"I assure you I am. As I said, I have my orders."

"Bugger your orders!" Harry hissed vehemently. "You can't take him to Azkaban. He's too weak yet to be there for more than a few minutes. Surely you're not so blind as to not see that?"

The executive just shook his head. "I cannot disobey my commands."

He turned back to the two Aurors standing by for his signal.

"Castor, Reed, take him to containment room 113B until he has been cleared for transportation to Azkaban, is that clear?"

While the Aurors nodded their heads, Harry shook his own fiercely.

"You can't do that!" he insisted as he stepped between Bleckley and the Aurors.

He saw Bleckley's fat black moustache twitch angrily. Curiously, the headmistress stayed silent.

"Sir," the executive head said coolly, "I suggest you get out of my way and leave the room."

"Or what?" Harry spat nastily. "You'll take me to Azkaban, too?"

He saw Bleckley reach into his long robes, and in a flash Harry had his wand palmed and pointed in the executive's direction. Behind him, Harry felt more than saw the two Aurors scrambling for their own wands. Quickly, Harry sidestepped to the right and readjusted his aim to fix on all three Ministry officials.

"Do you really want to go against the Boy Who Lived?" Harry snarled at the Aurors, making them freeze in their movements.

If Bleckley was surprised to find out who Harry was, he did not show it outwardly.

"Do you really think this wise, son?" the man said dangerously. "My Aurors are highly trained and will not hesitate to cast should you initiate a duel."

"Ooh," Harry said sarcastically. "I'm just quaking in my boots. After all, I _have _only gone against Voldemort just about every year since I was eleven; what chance do you honestly believe a couple of Aurors have?"

At Harry's point, Bleckley pursed his lips.

"Son, I think you should -"

Out of his peripheral vision, Harry saw one of the Aurors try to reach behind and grab his wand.

"Not a good idea," Harry threatened loudly.

The Auror ignored him and continued to move; apparently training was not up to par with this one. Harry growled and was about to cast a full body bind when McGonagall finally chose that moment to speak up.

"Harry, it is possibly not the best course of action to curse an Auror," the headmistress intervened smoothly.

Harry was about to argue when she caught his eye, and he slowly lowered his wand.

McGonagall turned to the executive head and his Aurors and said, "Perhaps it is time for you to leave before the situation escalates out of hand. Do not surprised, however should your department be contacted in the next few days, Executive Bleckley."

Bleckley did not appear to be too fond of following McGonagall's orders but reluctantly nodded about five seconds later.

"Right, he said slowly. "Thank you for you time. Gentlemen," he gestured towards the doors; "proceed."

With that, the two Aurors began to move, and with them, Malfoy.

"Malfoy…" Harry tried talking but as Malfoy walked past him, the blond cast his eyes down and shook his head.

"It won't help, Potter," he murmured quietly, "just leave it go."

Harry could do nothing but stare helplessly after Malfoy as he disappeared out the door.

"Damnit!" Harry swore as soon as the last steps faded down the hall. He did not bother apologizing for his vulgarity as he threw his wand down on the bed closest to him and threaded his fingers through his hair.

"I quite agree," McGonagall said in a strange mixture of both humour and grimness.

"What are we going to do?" Harry questioned angrily.

"I'm afraid there's not much we can do," McGonagall admitted.

"But - he's going to go insane in two days flat!" Harry roared. "Tonight he'll be alright because they still need to clear a room for him in Azkaban, but after that he may as well AK himself and get it done with!"

McGonagall sighed in light of Harry's outburst. "I know, Mister Potter, but there isn't any…."

The headmistress suddenly quieted; a revelation fell over her face and her eyes widened. Immediately Harry's interest was caught, and he waited in tight anticipation for what she would say next.

"Unless…"

"Unless what, Minerva?" Pomfrey said in an unusually impatient tone.

"Unless," she repeated in a calm voice, "we can convince the Wizengamot that Azkaban is not the best place for him."

Harry snorted. "And how are we supposed to do that?"

"Given Mister Malfoy's current health - which Poppy could attest to - and his position in the Death Eater Rebellion, I'm sure that with the proper techniques we could persuade the Ministry to allow Mister Malfoy to be placed under alternative custody. It would take a lot of work, but it can be done."

"Alternative custody? Under whose jurisdiction?" Harry inquired.

"It wouldn't be under a jurisdiction but rather an individual person, someone who would act as Mister Malfoy's watcher," McGonagall explained rapidly, obviously getting warmed up to the idea. "They would have guardianship over Mister Malfoy."

"Like guardianship as in 'adopt' kind of thing?" Harry asked curiously.

"Of course not, Mister Potter," the headmistress scoffed as if that were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. "This would be temporary guardianship over Mister Malfoy until his trial. They would have certain responsibilities, including making sure Mister Malfoy stays within standard health. They would have to be of age, have enough money to qualify, housing, and sufficient mental health for the Wizengamot to even consider allowing someone to take on Mister Malfoy as their charge. Mister Malfoy's age has nothing to do with it. It's either alternate custody or Mister Malfoy can be a ward of the state until the trial."

"Hhm," Pomfrey hummed. "The only problem now is who."

There was a long silence after that as each of them thought of the best candidates. Admittedly Harry did not know many people he would entrust with a job like that. Then there were the issues of making sure said person was of age (seventeen years old in most wizarding communities besides those in the States) and making sure all the other qualifications were met. Harry had exhausted his list of people, and just as he was about to give up, an idea trickled into his head.

"…I could do it," he ventured hesitantly.

Both McGonagall and Pomfrey stared at Harry, expressions of wonderment on their faces.

"Come again?" McGonagall said.

"I could do it," Harry repeated with more confidence. "I meet the qualifications. I could do it."

"But…the responsibilities, Harry…and what of the financial qualifications? And housing?" McGonagall countered. "As much as I would prefer, it would not be practical for either of you to stay at Hogwarts for such a period of time. It would not be safe for the students."

"I know," Harry reassured her quickly. "Don't worry about the money. My mum and dad left me with an inheritance worth more than a lot of the wizarding families around here." He bit his lip as he thought about the second issue. "Housing, though…that might pose a problem. I've been jumping around from hotel to hotel and I can't just buy a house somewhere."

Harry threaded his fingers through his hair and tugged hard, getting frustrated that he could not think of anything. McGonagall, too, was silent, obviously having her own troubles, but then suddenly Madame Pomfrey gasped softly.

"What of number twelve, Grimmauld Place?" Pomfrey presented quickly. "Did the Order not switch headquarters earlier this month?"

Harry looked dumbstruck, then he smiled after a minute.

"Yes," he said in a slightly stunned voice. "I'd totally forgotten the Order no longer needed it! Then it's settled."

"Not quite," McGonagall argued. "Mister Potter, I must urge you to think long and hard about this. The responsibilities that come with a decision like this, even a temporary one, are tedious and difficult. Even if we do manage to provoke the court to give Mister Malfoy the leeway he needs, the pressure on you, Harry, is going to be significant. You would not be able to travel about as freely as you do; you will be tied down. Anywhere you go, Mister Malfoy must go also. Should he escape…"

McGonagall shook her head.

"The Ministry has been known to take alternate individuals in place of their missing prisoners. I must place upon you the reality of the situation before you jump to decisions."

McGonagall's words forced Harry's excited thoughts to slow to a standstill, and he paused, seriously contemplating her words.

"Headmistress," he said slowly, thinking, "I understand what you are trying to make me see, and I do see it. I know that I will be hindered in my progress somewhat, but with some more work others could help me with my research and the tracking of certain items. I know the Ministry will be watching me just waiting for me to screw up somehow, but I promise I won't. I understand how important this is, trust me. Maybe it's not the best thing for me to do, but, Professor," he looked up at her earnestly; "how can I really say no?"

For a long moment, McGonagall just stared at Harry, then she said in an almost whisper, "You truly have changed, Mister Potter."

This made Harry's brain jerk to a stop, and he spoke after a couple of seconds.

"More than most take time to realize," he said softly.

McGonagall gave him an almost incredulous expression before she nodded.

"Alright, Mister Potter," she agreed. "If that is what you want to do, then I will help you as much as I can."

"Then it's settled," Harry repeated his words from earlier in their conversation.

"Yes," McGonagall announced dismissively. "We need to bring in a law wizard, however, as soon as possible."

She suddenly smiled, and Harry could have sworn she had a manic glint in her eyes.

"I know just the person."

--------------

"Name's Edora Hayes," a rather elegant brunette woman proclaimed as she stormed into the headmistress's office.

Harry turned around at the sudden loud voice and found his hand in a firm grip within seconds. He winced at the strong clasp but smiled as welcomingly as he could.

"Mister Potter, this is Ed, a former protégé of mine, I suppose one could say," McGonagall introduced with a fond expression.

"Ah, Mister Potter, you're the contender in question, I gather," Ed said.

At Harry's small nod, she hummed. Harry sat uncomfortably as the woman studied him, and he took in her appearance.

The law 'wizard' was rather small and delicate in stature, very pale and pretty, appearing to be in her late twenties though surely no older than twenty-eight. Her long black hair was pulled back into a neat knot on the back of her head, and her eyes were almond-shaped with the colour of warm honey. She gave off the air of an aristocrat, reminding Harry suitably of Malfoy, but she also gave off that she had that air for a reason. She wore smart black business robes, and Harry found she was actually quite attractive and almost reminded him of Cho. However, this woman was anything but emotional; he could tell by the calculating look in her eyes that this was not someone to be messed with.

She lifted one dainty hand and took hold of Harry's chin rather forcefully, pushing his head up to look her in the eyes.

"He'll need to look more presentable if he wants to woo the court," she instructed firmly after several minutes.

She fingered the collar of Harry's old shirt distastefully and shook her head.

"His hair needs cut, his wardrobe needs refashioned, and his posture…" Ed sighed. "He'll need to look the perfect gentleman for the Wizengamot to even consider him. Most of those on council are old-fashioned and will not take in good favour a man who does not dress appropriately. We need any bonuses we can get, especially on such short notice."

"And what do you propose we do about Mister Potter's appearance?" the headmistress inquired curiously.

"The earliest court date I could get was Wednesday," Ed said as she turned back to McGonagall, "and that was after I pulled a few strings. We will have to fix him up by then."

"Two days from now?" Harry blurted. "But that's-that's -"

"The earliest the court could manage," Ed interrupted condescendingly. "It is a miracle that we got a date so soon. Hearings usually take a week or more to be scheduled, even more since the Rebellion debacle. I take it you would not rather wait that long?"

Reservedly, Harry shook his head.

"I agree, Mister Harry Potter," Ed smiled indulgently. Harry must have looked confused at her rapid mood swings because she laughed for a second.

"About the payment, Edora," McGonagall began but stopped when Ed shook her head.

"No payment, Minerva, I relish the chance to challenge the Ministry at its own rules."

She flashed two rows of flawless white teeth, and Harry suddenly understood what McGonagall had meant when she said Ed was the perfect person. It seemed Harry was not he only one who had a chip on his shoulder when it came to the government. And, as the law wizard began speaking to McGonagall of the hearing date and preliminary appearances and other things that went straight over Harry's head, he saw that as young as the law wizard appeared she sure as hell knew what she was doing.

"We have quite a few advantages to our side that we are going to have to play well in order for Mister Potter to gain custody. However, before we do any of that, I need you to sign this, Mister Potter."

With a flourish, Ed presented a thick roll of parchment. Summoning a quill from McGonagall's desk, the law wizard set the parchment down in front of Harry and handed him the writing utensil.

"This is an agreement stating that you acquiesce to my representation in the Wizengamot. However, seeing as how I am taking this case freely, the final section of the contract concerning payment is void," Ed explained.

Harry looked down at the quill in his hand and then over to the parchment. Sighing, he gave up trying to read through it when he started to get confused by the third sentence, and he jotted down his messy signature. When he was done, he gave the parchment back to Ed, who took out her wand, tapped the paper twice, and whispered something that made it vanish from her hand with a puff of purple smoke.

"There, she said with a small sigh, "it's off to the Ministry. The Wizengamot should be getting it any moment now. As you know, had you read the contract fully, Mister Potter, that your presence will be required tomorrow to make sure you are of sound mental health. However, I have several questions regarding your knowledge of Mister Malfoy."

"What are they?" Harry asked, mentally preparing himself.

Ed said, "First off, I'd like to know how much you know about Mister Malfoy as of now. Anything about him, simply tell me so I can get a better understanding on your position."

Harry shrugged, then thought about it.

"Well…I suppose I don't know that much about him, really," Harry said. "He was a git in school, always something cutting to say to someone…but…I guess I never really looked much closer than that, to tell you the truth."

"And what about his participation in the Death Eater Rebellion?"

"Just that he and Lucius Malfoy somehow figured out a way to turn Voldemort's followers against him," Harry said honestly. "The only information I really got was from the newspapers. I…haven't been in touch as much as I'd like."

"Hhm…" Ed hummed. "So you don't have a very firm grasp on everything that's happened. Perhaps I should enlighten you a bit."

She sat on the chair opposite him and turned to face him before speaking.

"Mister Malfoy, as you should know quite well enough already, is a known Death Eater. He has rampaged villages, killed countless numbers of men, women, and yes, children, too. He had tortured those who were innocent, helped fellow Death Eaters rape and kill on whim…he helped with numerous attempts to killed you, Mister Potter, without success. I'm sure you can see why the wizarding world would not welcome Mister Malfoy back with open arms."

"But he helped with the Rebellion, too, didn't he?" Harry interrupted.

Ed nodded. "Yes, true, he did help lead the Rebellion. This is enough to redeem him partway. What much of the public and many in the Ministry do not know is the extent through which Mister Malfoy partook. You yourself have seen evidence, and you know that Mister Malfoy would not have taken that willingly, even as part of a ruse to worm his way back into the Light. However, there is yet another matter which will block the way for him. A matter you are well acquainted with, I'm afraid: his participation in the murder of Albus Dumbledore."

Harry closed his eyes as he heard the same voice from the Infirmary all those days ago.

"_Harry, remember, my boy, hate hath not but the desire to kill."_

"The Ministry has ruled Mister Malfoy out as the prime murderer, but he will still be questioned on it. However, to the rest of the wizarding world including many people at this school, he may as well have been the wizard holding the wand."

"_Don't let it consume you, Harry, for through you it shall burn the world."_

"But they proved it was Snape," Harry said hoarsely, opening his eyes.

"They filed in the Ministry records that through _your_ testimony Professor Albus Dumbledore was killed by Severus Snape, but until they have his wand, they cannot provide solid proof that it was indeed him. Many people will just as happily go on believing it was Mister Malfoy for their own purposes of blame."

_Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily behind his half-moon glasses. "Ah, the moon smiles so graciously upon those she loves, does she not? Perhaps one day I shall join her, too, up in that beautiful velvet sky. Do you suppose it feels as soft as my down mattress?"_

"The Ministry took Malfoy's wand and tested it, didn't they?" Harry asked, blinking away tears rapidly.

Ed shook her head and said, "Mister Malfoy's wand was not found at Malfoy Manor nor was it on his person. It is still currently missing. The Ministry has not been able to track it."

Harry forced himself to clear his thoughts of his mentor and inquired, "So, what else do I need to know?"

"You will be questioned about your relationship with Mister Malfoy, why you think you should be able to take custody, reasons for doing so, ex cetera. You will also be asked if you know anything about his past history. They will dig into your background as well, perhaps pulling up some things that would be seen as derogatory to your case."

"Alright," Harry said. "And this test on mental health…how will I be tested?"

"You will be given an inhibitor and a trained Legimens will sort through your mind to see if anything in your past is affecting you and by what degree, if any. If the Legimens gives his approval, you will be cleared."

"…and if not?" Harry asked hesitantly, already guessing the answer.

"You will be denied before even going into the courtroom," Ed said matter-of-factly.

Harry let out his breath. "That means I'd better pass, huh?"

Ed cracked a small smile. "That it does, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded. "So, let's get this done."

----------

The next day passed quickly and in a blur for Harry. Ed had proved to be as tough as a drill sergeant, as caring as a mother, and yet still managing at times to be like a quirky friend. Over the night, his thoughts had kept him awake long into the early hours of the morning, resulting in about three hours of sleep. He was confused, unsure, tired, and just a short of petrified. His mind had been pumped full of so much information and what to say and how to act that he almost felt as if he were the Death Eater on trial. However, the only thing he could focus on as he followed Ed toward a small, red, broken down telephone box was how terrified he suddenly felt.

Harry was jostled to one side as Ed motioned for him to turn around and shut the door while Ed dialed the number to get to the floors of the Ministry.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic! Enjoy your stay," the welcoming witch's voice filtrated into the booth.

Three silver tags fell out from the change slot detailing their names and reasons for visiting. Ed handed Harry his. He put it on silently without needing to be told, and in seconds he felt the phone booth slowly start to drop. After what seemed like an eternity, the lift slid smoothly to a stop. The doors opened at the same time the voice announced that they were at level eight. Immediately, Harry recognized the Atrium.

"Come, Mister Potter," Ed said softly, tugging gently on his elbow. She started walking into the hall without waiting any longer for Harry.

Harry had not realized he was stalling and quickly followed behind the law wizard. Hurried wizards and witches bustled to and fro from the gilded fireplaces lining both sides of the long room. One of them, a haggard looking wizard in dusty green robes juggling stacks of parchment, bumped into Harry.

"Sorry," the wizard muttered quickly and disappeared into an outgoing fireplace in seconds.

Harry looked up, his steps clicking against the dark wood floor, and saw the golden shapes spiraling around the endless blue ceiling. Everything was as Harry remembered it. He had not been there since the summertime. However, when he passed the Fountain of Magical Brethren, he saw with a jolt of inexplicable unease that the gold statues where no longer spouting water and were tarnished, a scorch mark here, the tip of the wizard's wand broken there.

"What happened?" Harry asked as they passed it.

Ed glanced at the fountain, her eyes sticking for a few seconds, but said, "Not now, Mister Potter. Later."

Harry, though disappointed, fell silent and continued to look about.

"Wands, please," the guard said when they reached the security desk.

Harry watched Ed do so and hesitantly did the same. He did not like the feeling of handing over his wand with so many armed wizards around him, and it made him slightly apprehensive. After a few seconds of fiddling about, the guard gave back Harry's wand and wrote something quickly on a clipboard on his desk.

He looked back up and said, "You're cleared. You may proceed through the gates."

He gestured to his left, at which were a pair of elaborate filigree gates. Harry followed behind Ed as the gates opened and closed silently behind them. Once inside the next section, Harry faced a row of twelve elevators. Instead of merely going toward the nearest lift, however, Ed led him to the last elevator on the left side. Harry frowned but did not comment as she pressed the button on the side. A moment later, the doors opened.

"Follow me," she instructed unnecessarily and stepped into the lift.

Harry did as he was told, and in seconds the voice spoke again, this time telling them they were on the first level.

"The first floor?" Harry frowned. "I thought we'd be going to level two, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Ed looked back at him and replied, "The first level is for the Department of Elemental and Mind Magicks. You wouldn't have been here before; it is a secluded sect of the Ministry. However, this level deals with certain areas of interrogation and testing, which is why I'm taking you here."

"Interrogation?" Harry said.

"Another way of saying legal torture," Ed explained grimly.

Harry did not have anything to say to that.

The lift slid to a stop but before the doors opened, Ed said, "Alright, follow me. But remember, Mister Potter, do not touch anything. There is a lot of wild magic on this floor, which is why this level is so isolated, so be careful."

Harry nodded, and the doors opened a second later.

As soon as he stepped out of the confines of the lift, he understood what Ed meant by 'wild' magic.

The amount of pure energy within the air hit him like a wave, singing a mermaid's song to his inner core. He could feel iridescent tendrils teasing him and stroking his skin in an odd, almost sexual dance. Harry felt as if he were drowning in all the quiet static, his nerves tingling to get torn apart.

"_Mister Potter…"_

Harry tried to shake the buzzing noise out of his head but only succeeded in making the volume increase. He heard someone call his name again, but the words were thick, slowed, unrecognizable. He closed his eyes and smiled, letting the wave drift him away, drift him away…

"Mister Potter!"

Suddenly Ed's sharp voice broke through the haze and Harry's eyes snapped open. The noise and overpowering feeling disappeared. Ed stopped shaking him and stood back, glaring.

"What did I tell you about touching anything in here?" she shrilled. "I told you specifically not to!"

"But I didn't!" Harry protested.

Ed pointed behind him and said, "You didn't just walk into an enigma shadow, then?"

Harry turned around and followed the direction she was pointing. At first, all he saw were the smooth drag grey walls the outlined the long corridor, but then a flicker of movement caught his eye. Taking a step back, he saw was looked like a panel of rippling silver smoke.

"What is that?" Harry gasped.

"An enigma shadow," Ed repeated. "It is one of the forms of wild magic that the Ministry has not yet been able to contain. They are studying the movement of enigma shadows and allow it to roam free, which is why I told you to be careful."

Harry glanced back and for some reason the shifting mist caused something to flicker in the back of Harry's mind. It looked eerily familiar…black and silver…masks…cold blood…a shape, a circle but not…

'A circle?' Harry thought bemusedly. 'Where did that come from?' He pushed away the perplexing image and focused back into the present.

They reached another door at the end of the corridor, thankfully without any more encounters with any type of magic.

"Edora Hayes," the law wizard recited and tapped her wand against the door. It glowed a soft blue.

At Harry's look, she explained, "It is a precautionary measure. You won't need to do that, Mister Potter. They're already expecting you."

"Okay," Harry answered just as the door swung open.

The next corridor was as full of foreign objects as the first. Harry looked around him in wonder at some of the things he saw. What looked like several house elf heads floated around in a jar, wires and metal rods zapped volts of pure energy to each other.

In one corner, Harry saw a whole mass of wriggling white lines swirling along the wall and most of the ceiling like mutant kudzu.

"Experiments," Ed said as if she could read his mind.

They came next to a series of doors reminding Harry slightly of the Department of Mysteries, except these doors were all dark oak and had separate symbols engraved deep in the wood. Ed walked up to one with a symbol like a 'y' with a line through the middle and wrenched the door open.

Immediately, a white light so intense and dazzling that Harry could barely see beamed into the corridor. Harry saw Ed disappear into the room, and in a second of indecision, followed behind her.

In an instant, it was dark and quiet. All of Harry's limbs went heavy with comfortable fatigue.

"_Harry…" _

His eyes were tired, the lids closing drowsily. It did not seem to bother his mind that one second he was one place and the next he was here in this dark cradling abyss; indeed, where had he been before?

"_Harry…where are you?" _a soft, disembodied voice whispered as if it had read Harry's mind.

"I…I don't know…" Harry slurred sleepily. "Tired. Wanna sleep."

It occurred to him that he had not opened his mouth to speak but the way he answered seemed natural.

"_No, think," _the disembodied voice soothed. _"Maybe you're at Hogwarts. Yes, you are walking down the corridor to talk to go to the Infirmary. You go there a lot, don't you? Do you see the torches along the walls?"_

"Ye -" Harry nodded then frowned. Something was telling him what the gentle voice was saying was wrong. He was not in the school, his mind whispered, he had not been for a long time….

"_But you are, Harry; you're pushing open the doors now. There are people on the beds - students. Madame Pomfrey is helping them."_

Harry's frown deepened.

"No, that's not right. I'm not at Hogwarts, and those aren't students…I'm…they're…"

"_You are at Hogwarts, Harry. Those are students there."_

Harry shook his head. Some of the sleepiness cleared.

"I'm not, I…the person…"

Suddenly the thread of thought dragging through his mind snagged. Like a Muggle film on fast forward, he saw himself Apparating to Hogsmeade and going to the Infirmary, saw Malfoy screaming in a pool of his own blood, and he saw himself helping Malfoy, holding Malfoy's hand, comforting Malfoy, watching Malfoy after he fell asleep. Malfoy.

With this burst of intuition, the fog cleared.

"Very good," came a voice in front of him.

Instantly, Harry's eyes snapped open. The vision of Malfoy's prone form lying on the hospital bed faded from his eyes, and at the voice Harry blinked and looked around confusedly. He was sitting down in a straight backed metal chair, though how or when he had gotten there he did not know. Across from him sat a man in white robes and wire-rimmed spectacles gazing at him quietly. The room around them was small, somehow metallic, and Harry registered that Ed was nowhere in sight.

"What am I? What just happened?" Harry demanded.

The man leaned forward and said, "Where do _you _think you're at?"

"I don't know. Why else would I ask?" Harry began nastily.

He was about to add some few choice comments when his memories stopped and hit him.

"I…I'm at the Ministry of Magic, level one, Department of Elemental and Mind Magicks," Harry said slowly as if with deep concentration. "I am being tested for mental health for possible custody of Draco Malfoy. You are the Legimens that is going to test me. You are going to give me an inhibitor to bring down any defenses and assess whether or not I will pass or fail."

The man raised a slim dark eyebrow.

"_Very_ good," he said rather monotonously. "Most do not remember as much. What you just went through was a test for reasoning and using your logical mind. Though confused, you managed to separate memory from the present and use your reasoning to figure out I was trying to persuade you to believe you were reliving a recent memory from your past. Many have more trouble distinguishing the two."

Harry shrugged and replied, "Well, most are not me."

The man just smiled coolly in answer and reached into his robes to pull out a small clear vial.

"This is the inhibitor," he explained. "It will, as you said, break down any remaining barriers and loosen your mind's innate ability to hide memories and certain thoughts. After you take this, I will probe your mind for any traumatic or major events that could be affecting you adversely in any way. This will only take a few minutes, and then you will be led into the viewing room to be rejoined with your law wizard."

Harry found himself wanting to cringe away from the almost robotic tone and look in the man's eyes but forced himself to stay still.

Without saying anything, Harry reached over to take the vial. Grasping the cork, he popped it open and tossed the concoction back. Curiously, it did not taste like anything, and he found himself wondering if perhaps the Legimens had lied until he felt the first tendrils of foreign thought invade the outline of his mind.

At first, the memories whizzing past his consciousness were of trivial, sometimes happy things, like winning a Quidditch match, his feelings over his first Hogwarts letter, or playing Exploding Snap. But then they slowly became more bleak and dark. He saw himself crying at seven years old when he had a scrape on his knee and everyone else went inside to eat dinner, locking him outside; having no food for days; the look on Vernon's face every time he looked at Harry.

Then the man dug deeper, the memories more vivid and fresh: his anxiety over his first year, his betrayal of his trusted teacher. His second year flashed before his eyes, and he could almost feel the pain in his arm when the basilisk bit down. He remembered Hermione laughing and Ron giving him a high five. Next his third year: Sirius promising to take Harry away from the Dursley's. _'No, Harry, don't!'_. His fourth year: _'Come seek us where our voices sound…we've taken what you'll sorely miss…' . _Cedric's face stared back at him, his lifeless eyes gazing blankly. He saw Sirius fall backward behind the Veil and heard the sound of a failed Cruciatus curse cast by Harry himself.

As the Legimens started on his sixth year, Harry found himself trying to resist.

Harry finding Malfoy's dot on the Marauder's Map. _Ron shook his head, 'You're getting obsessed, mate.' _

He began to panic as the scene flew past, the memories getting closer and closer to the end of the year, the end of the summer. He could not block him out.

"No, no, no," Harry chanted silently in desperation. "Don't let him see that! Don't!"

The late nights searching, always obsessively probing for something.

He pushed harder and harder, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to throw off the drug and build back his walls.

'_Oh, don't cry,' Myrtle cooed gently. _

_Harry saw the tears streaking down Malfoy's pale face and dripping silently into the broken sink._

'_I can't do it,' Malfoy sobbed._

Harry felt his fingernails digging into his palms, felt the sharp pain as they penetrated the skin layer-by-layer. It was nothing to him.

Realizing all over again that Malfoy was forced to do what he did. _'Draco, you are not a killer.'_ Dumbledore falling, his robes like a pair of fluttering wings around his body….

"No!"

With a final cry, Harry pushed with all of his might, and in that instant, it was as if a light switch was thrown off. Harry panted as the memories faded back to darkness. It was just him in his mind now.

Then several seconds later, it hit him what he had done.

Harry's eyes snapped open and, with a feeling of dread, looked over to see the Legimens' reaction. The wizard was staring at him with an unreadable look in his eyes. He knew what Harry had done.

Harry's mouth opened and closed, trying to think of something to say, an excuse, anything to save the situation.

"I -"

"You passed."

"What?" Harry asked disbelievingly.

"You passed," the wizard repeated, and in that moment Harry thought he saw a hint of understanding flicker behind his eyes.

Harry quieted and slowly nodded at the silent exchange.

"Thank you," Harry said reverently, knowing the man would understand the real reason behind his words.

The Legimens nodded and pointed to a door that suddenly appeared to his right.

"Goodbye, Mister Potter," he said conclusively.

Harry stood and nodded his good-byes, knowing he would probably never see the man again.

"Thank you," he said again. He stepped through the door.

Inside was Ed, McGonagall, and another man wearing the same white robes as the Legimens who had examined him.

"Congratulations, Mister Potter," the man said. This wizard, however, unlike the last one, actually smiled. "You have passed the requirements for mental health. You may leave now. The results will be sent to the Wizengamot in a few hours time."

Harry breathed a sight of relief and grinned. Ed matched his smile muscle-by-muscle before turning to discuss something with the man.

McGonagall gazed at Harry and said, "Well, that's one hurdle we have successfully jumped. A grand job, Mister Potter."

Harry smiled again. "Thank you, Professor."

"Alright, we've been cleared to go," Ed sighed as she turned back around. "We just need to go through this door, turn left, and we'll come to the elevators again."

Harry nodded and made to follow Ed. When he fell in step beside McGonagall, he said, "When did you get here?"

"I was delayed at an Order meeting at the headquarters, but I arrived ten minutes ago," the headmistress replied.

They entered the lift and started to ascend. Harry took off his nametag; he would not need it anymore. It seemed to take a lot less time to get out of the Ministry than it did to get in, and before Harry knew it, they were back on the street.

"So," Ed raised her eyebrows, "time to get you cleaned up for tomorrow."

----------

**End of Chapter Seven.**


	7. Blueglass Breakdown

**Title: **System Discordia

**Author: **Eris Mackenzie

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers: **SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing: **Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings: **Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary: **After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the Light? Post-HBP slash

**A/N: **Ach, this chapter had no love for me. I'll tell you what, I got so blocked writing this that even my grades started dropping. Not good. You cannot believe how much better I feel now that I've gotten this out. Thanks to my reviewers who have commented so far, and I hope you enjoy again!

-----------------

**Chapter Seven: Blueglass Breakdown**

_There's so much more about you that you never let them see  
You turn away  
But not to me  
And I know how they tried to take you  
Held you up and meant to break you down  
But you can't be_

_-"Become" Goo Goo Dolls_

-------------

The faint smoky wisp of the recording spell rose from the tip of the court attendant's wand. The attendant was dressed in full green attire, proclaiming his station and job.

"State your name for the records," the man said loudly.

Harry cleared his throat and said clearly, "Harry James Potter."

Harry looked around him at all of the people gathered in courtroom three. Harry had never been in this courtroom, though it looked exactly the same as courtroom ten. All around him sat the Wizengamot members in the ascending wooden benches. Their rich purple robes reflected none of the dim candlelight flickering along the cold stone walls.

He gulped nervously as he shifted in his chair in the middle of the room; the restraints normally binding the person thankfully were not needed. Malfoy, however, was another matter entirely. He was seated on the bench to Harry's right. The chains weighing him down were enough to melt and make a three foot statue.

Harry felt a little twinge of something as he looked at the dark circles under Malfoy's eyes and the sickly grey pallor of his skin. He, obviously, had not slept for the past two days. Harry wondered if Malfoy had been forced to spend the night before in Azkaban, or if the Ministry had seen fit to keep him under watch once Ed had contacted them.

Both Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had been interrogated before him. Some of the many others included several Aurors Harry remembered seeing from the Infirmary that night. The questions directed at Madame Pomfrey were as expected; they queried about Malfoy's health and condition prior to him being brought in and during her care. She had answered in the tact manner she always held. McGonagall had been just as polite as Pomfrey, giving absolutely nothing away from her cool, discreet conduct.

Ed sat in the stands to his right. She had already helped him through some preliminary questioning, but this time he was going to have to answer the enquiries himself without any help.

He felt sick to his stomach.

"Mister Potter."

Harry glanced up sharply at the clear voice that had rung out across the courtroom. His eyes landed on a wizard directly in front of him. He instantly recognized him as the Chief Warlock who had taken up the position after Dumbledore died. He was an ancient, grizzly man with a small purple box hat upon his wispy, grey hair. The expression on his face was of strict and sharp calculation, intimidating to any means, but his tone of voice - rather than jangling Harry's shot nerves - did the exact opposite. Harry found himself relaxing despite the wizard's fierce disposition.

The wizard leaned forward slightly and inquired, "You are here to vie for temporary custody of the prisoner until his trial date, are you not?"

Harry nodded. "Yes," he replied quietly.

"You know of the serious and damaging charges facing the prisoner?"

"I do."

A strange ripple flickered unknowingly through Harry's eyes, but the Chief Warlock saw it. He nodded slightly and said, "Knowing this, let me make it clear for the records that you still are proceeding to contest for custody, correct, Mister Potter?"

"Yes."

With the introductory comments made, the Chief Warlock launched into the official routine questions of "Do you have an adequate home for the prisoner?", "Are you financially secure enough to take on the charge of the prisoner?", and "Are you of age?" to which Harry all answered in the affirmative.

Harry's palms started to sweat as they neared the more personal questioning. The wizard, however, still kept within comfortable boundaries, and Harry slowly started to relax after the fourth or fifth standard enquiry.

He knew he should not have. The Chief Warlock gave him a look, and he knew in that second what he was going to say next.

The old man opened his mouth with a hard expression.

"You were charged with the killing of Marcus Boyette this past summer, were you not?"

For a long moment, the air was squeezed from his chest inevitably stopping his breath and the words echoed throughout his head. He should have known that it would come around sooner or later - no, he had known.

"…yes." The word slithered softly from Harry's lips. It sounded so shameful, so guilt-ridden.

Sudden pictures, sounds, and scents invaded Harry's mind; the smell of warm, wet pavement cooling in the twilight, the crash of shouting, pounding footsteps, and crying. Unconsciously, his gaze drifted over to Malfoy. His usually masked face was a multitude of emotions, shock and surprise prominent among the rest. His blond hair fell in front of his eyes, unable to be pushed back by his chained hands, and the smooth strands caught the light like crystal water in a stream. Harry's eyes followed the flowing, broken shine as it danced across Malfoy's hair in a daze. They had looked so alike, Harry recalled vaguely, that with a confusedly gut-wrenching feeling he had thought it was Malfoy lying on the ground….

His attention was wrenched back to the interrogation by a well placed cough, but the shocked look on Malfoy's face was forever burnt into the back of his mind.

On the bench, the Chief Warlock shifted slightly; his eyes spoke volumes of sympathy, but Harry knew what was still to come was unpreventable.

"And you also admit to a short-term stay in St. Mungo's mental ward?" he asked.

Harry flinched as if stung, but he still ground out, "On the Ministry's orders, I did. They wanted to make sure nothing adverse had affected me."

"What was the diagnosis proclaimed after the allotted time period?"

"That I was mentally stable and able to go back to the real world," Harry said somewhat bitterly.

"Was there not several concerns expressed by the medical staff at St. Mungo's pertaining to the affect of what had occurred on your continued mental state?" the Warlock countered.

"Of course there was," Harry shot back heatedly without thinking. "How could there not be?"

A loud shuffle of papers interrupted them as a stack of parchment was passed to the Chief Warlock. He turned toward a rather nervous looking witch in her late twenties who was holding the bundle and after a moment grabbed the papers off of her. He lifted the silky purple ribbon enclosing it and scanned the document before he gave a grunt of satisfaction. Harry guessed they were the records of his stay in St. Mungo's if he were to make a deduction.

"Very well." He lifted his eyes back to Harry. The wizard studied him briefly before inquiring, "Do you care to tell us the reason why you would do this?"

Harry bit his lip for a moment, trying to think of an answer to the question that had eluded him the night before. The Veritaserum circulating through his system sent tendrils of faint helplessness to fog his sluggish brain; when he did not answer for several seconds, the ache in his chest amplified until he was forced to expel the truth - or the part he understood himself, anyway.

"I…I guess that I'm doing it because I know what the Dementors are like," Harry tried to explain as best as he could, "Anyone in Draco Malfoy's state should not be around them, especially not now. I-there's something else there but I…I don't know what it is."

"Care to explain about the Dementors?"

"He's still sick," Harry said. "He's not strong enough to battle them off on his own, not in a place like Azkaban."

"And how would you know of Mister Malfoy's health status?" the old man asked.

"I helped Madame Pomfrey in Hogwarts, where Draco Malfoy was being healed. I was, also, there the night he was found and brought in," Harry elucidated.

At his explanation, several looks were exchanged within the stands, but when Harry began to notice the Wizengamot once again became stone-faced. There was a brief moment of silence and then the questioning began once more.

"Could you please describe Mister Malfoy's condition when he arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Malfoy's eyes though he could feel the blond's gaze burning into the side of his face. Harry tried to ignore it as he went on, stuttering and slightly apprehensive.

"He was incredibly wounded," Harry said slowly, unsure as to how much he should or would reveal. "He…he had been tortured for over a week, ever since the night of the Rebellion. He was kept in a holding cell in Malfoy Manor - that's where the Aurors found him and took him from there to Hogwarts. The skin covering most of his body was slashed and bleeding, four of his ribs were broken or fractured, his right arm was broken in three places along with his left cheekbone and nose. He had also acquired a head wound sometime along the week. His…"

Harry hesitated, and his eyes flickered over to Malfoy for a split second. His face was once again a stone mask, expressionless, indifferent, cold. The blond did not even glance over.

Harry looked back to the Wizengamot.

"His lower body was injured extensively as well with gashes and various puncture wounds," he settled, gratefully skirting past some of the more descriptive wording. "The more sizable wounds require relatively more time to mend, and some of the damages are not expected to return to a normal state for at least another week."

Some of the those in the Wizengamot studied over Malfoy's impassive face, almost as if to determine whether or not Harry was telling the truth. As with Harry, the ex-Death Eater made no move to show he felt their stares.

After a moment, the Warlock nodded almost absentmindedly. His wrinkled face was set with dreamlike concentration, as if he were thinking hard of a new idea that had slipped into his mind.

"How much interaction would you say you had with the prisoner, Mister Potter?"

Harry lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"I'm not sure how to measure it," he said truthfully. "Not much but enough to know he was seriously hurt."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw one of the other members tap the Chief Warlock on the shoulder. The Wizengamot member hummed to himself then leaned back on the bench. Harry heard whispering for a few seconds as the old man consulted one of his fellow wizards. After several soft spoken sentences, he faced Harry again.

"There has been speculation on the somewhat less than friendly atmosphere between yourself and the prisoner," the wizard said slowly, watching him with beady eyes; "If you were to be granted temporary custody, what do you really believe would happen between yourself and Mister Malfoy? Would you be able to control the situation if tempers got out of hand?"

"I…" Harry began then paused. "I suppose - no, I know - that we would have our fair share of fights. I know that things between the two of us have been volatile at best, but it's…it's different now."

"How do you mean?"

Harry's face scrunched up as he tried to put words to the obscure feelings he could feel swirling underneath the surface as the Veritaserum pushed them into his consciousness.

Finally, all he could settle on was, "I've seen _him_."

He knew that that simple statement alone was not enough and stared hard at the swirls of stained oak ingrained in the benches surrounding him as if that would help his mind formulate the right sentences.

"When I first met Draco Malfoy years ago when I had just turned eleven, I instantly took a disliking to him because of the way he talked about my friends. He offered me a hand in friendship - probably only because of my preceded reputation - but it was friendship nonetheless. I rejected it then, and I think that's what started all the animosity between us. It's really actually pretty stupid when I think about it now. After that, aside from Voldemort -" several people flinched; "- Malfoy became the main annoyance in my life. I never thought about how it was really my fault all along. Mainly, I tried to ignore him as much as I could, and I usually succeeded. But last year I saw a side of Draco Malfoy I'd never thought existed."

Harry shook his head, concentrating on that moment, that infinitesimal second that spanned for months.

"It was almost like an epiphany when I realized - _finally_, after all these years - that Malfoy was not what everyone thought he was, _is_. It shocked me more than I can say to see someone I had believed I'd figured out long ago change and topple every assumption I had on its head. Never before had I thought Malfoy was really human; to me he was always a shadow, a statue in the background, a servant to the Dark Arts - but a person? Never.

Even though he played a major part in the loss of my mentor, I…I still have no feelings of hate towards him. Anger, yes, of course, but not hatred. If anything, I am sorry because what happened was out of his control, out of mine. The cards were held by entirely different hands, and he had no choice but to do what he did, not for his own sake but his family's. I can understand that; in fact, I admire the strength and courage it took to try. The fault for what happened is not on him. It never was."

With that, Harry looked up resolutely, done explaining for now and catching Malfoy's silver eyes inadvertently. His face revealed nothing, but his burning eyes were a myriad of shifting mystery, forever searching, penetrating, probing, and incisive. Something about them made Harry's breath catch in his throat.

His reverie was broken but a soft but final, "We will adjourn in ten minutes time to reveal the verdict."

Harry glanced over in surprise; he had not realized it would be so short. He suddenly felt very nervous. Had he said something wrong? Had he not said something he should have?

He tore his gaze from the Chief Warlock and desperately looked over at Ed sitting in the stands. She merely shook her head and lifted one finger to gesture he wait a moment. She leaned over to talk to a witch to her right, then stood and walked down the pathway splitting the rows of benches.

"You did good," she pronounced as she came within hearing distance.

Harry tried to smile but failed miserably.

Ed grinned reassuringly and patted him on the arm. "You can get up now. We will have to wait in the Messenger's Hall for their decision."

McGonagall appeared to Harry's left and said, "Excellent job, Mister Potter."

Her dusky green robes fluttered against Harry's hand for a fraction of a second.

"Thank you, Headmistress," Harry said politely. "Where is Madame Pomfrey?"

"She was needed back at Hogwarts," McGonagall replied dismissively. "Apparently two third years had a rather aggressive spat."

Harry nodded distractedly, and Ed led him by the elbow out of the door back to the hallway they had entered from. The next ten minutes passed in excruciating slowness. Every minute that ticked by felt like an eternity. The palms of Harry's hand were clammy and covered with a thin sheen of sweat; he rubbed them on the sides of his robes absentmindedly.

Finally, a loud _crack_ reverberated through the long hall, and out popped a thin, spindly wizard.

"The final decision of the Wizengamot," he shrilled, "in the circumstances regarding Draco Lucius Malfoy has been reached. Mister Harry James Potter…has been granted temporary custody for the time period until Draco Malfoy's trial."

Instantly, all around him, Harry heard sighs of relief. As for Harry, relief was not a strong enough noun.

"_Whoo_!" Ed whooped and clapped her hands.

The law wizard smiled bright enough to light up the room and turned to Harry.

"See!" she exclaimed. "I told you you did well!"

Beside him, McGonagall, too, was smiling proudly.

The wizard who had proclaimed the announcement declared that the presence of Harry and Ed was needed in another room. Harry and Ed quickly followed the young man into a room at the end of the hall. Through the doors there was a study, filled with piles of parchment, thick tomes, and half-filled bottles of ink. Behind a desk in the middle of the jumble sat four wizards: two Harry recognised from the Wizengamot (one of them being the Chief Warlock), and two others he did not know.

"Sit, please, Mister Potter, Miss Hayes," the Chief Warlock gestured one of several straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. Nudging one, Harry sat down carefully, eyes skittishly scanning each person. Beside him, Ed took a seat and turned to listen intently to the foursome.

"There's just a few things we must go through, procedures and suchlike, before we can allow you to transport Mister Malfoy," one of the wizards said. He shuffled a small stack of papers on the desk. "This is the contract Mister Potter will have to sign in order to cement his guardianship."

He handed the papers to Ed, whom Harry could see scanning them out of his peripheral vision.

"This says here Harry is Mister Malfoy's watcher for…four months, is that correct?" Ed questioned, her head still bent over the papers she was reading. "I thought the original time was for three and a half?"

"Yes," the wizard sitting at the end of the table said. "However, there is a great many complications within the Ministry that must be taken care of before the Death Eater trails can be initiated. It was agreed that four months, rather than three, would be a more reasonable amount of time. Naturally because of the level of his involvement, Mister Malfoy's trial is tentatively set as one of the first."

Harry just mentally shook his head in dull amazement. He was still having somewhat of a hard time wrapping his head around everything that was happening and would happen. It was all he could do to just sit back and ride the waves as they came.

"Here, Mister Potter, perhaps you should go over this," Ed handed him the parchment carefully.

'The Ministry of Magic hereby declares that the suspect in trial, Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy, is released for a period of four (4) consecutive months into Mr. Harold James Potter's custody. Should any unusual happenings occur during this time, the Ministry nor any of its associates hold any liability for the safety of Mr. Potter or any of the persons Mr. Malfoy should come into contact with. Several conditions and state of affairs are in order, in the following:

One (1): At all times, Mr. Malfoy must be under constant surveillance of both his guardian and unspecified officials at the Ministry of Magic. The means of this surveillance are through that of a magical binding contract in the form of a specified article of constriction. Should Mr. Malfoy remove the article at any time, he will be apprehended by Ministry officials immediately.

Two (2): If the suspect is to reside for longer than three days outside of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, its grounds and counterparts village of Hogsmeade, number 12 Grimmauld Place and its associations, he is to be escorted by chosen personnel of the Ministry unless given previous permission.

Three (3): Mr. Malfoy is not to have private exchanges with those of higher, equal, or lower rank or statues unless first specified by Mr. Potter and approved by the Wizengamot in order to guarantee the safety of those in both the outside wizarding world and the students within Hogwarts School. Any unknown communication with result in complete termination of Mr. Potter's custody.'

After reading the first page, Harry stopped. He got the jist of it, and if he had any questions later on, he would just consult the copy of the contract that he would receive.

"There's much more technical talk where that came from," a wizard wearing purple robes guaranteed. "But that first page is the bare essentials. As I'm sure you can see, Mr. Potter, you will be required to run a tight rope. There will be tremendous strain as well as much observation from the Ministry. However, other than the rules specified in the contract, you may run things as you should see fit, within reason, of course."

Harry nodded to show he understood. Beside him, Ed was looking through the rest of the contract, shaking her head at times but overall seeming to agree with the contents.

"You will still be able to attend to any outside errands that you may have to carry out; however, your areas will be limited. Mister Malfoy is not permitted, as is says later on in the contract, in several areas including Knockturn Alley for obvious reasons. Public places with a large amount of crowding should also be avoided but _are _permitted. Do you have any questions about that?"

Harry shook his head. "What about this -" he found the line and read; "'article of constriction'? What is it?"

The purple-robed wizard shifted slightly, avoiding Harry's eyes; instead, the Chief Warlock spoke up.

"Several things must be done to ensure Mister Malfoy does not escape from your custody. One is a Linking Spell; this is a spell that is placed upon two people that essentially tethers the recipients together. It is not irreversible but very highly effective. This will be performed on yourself and Mister Malfoy in order for you to be able to locate Mister Malfoy at any given time. The second involves a more physical tracking device which will permit the Ministry to track Mister Malfoy and keep tabs on his whereabouts. It will be presented to you at a later time once Mister Malfoy is present."

"Do you have any more questions?" The wizard at the left end spoke up. He was a small, perky wizard with an upturned nose and rather eccentric fastenings all over his robes.

Harry thought for a while then shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Good, then if you would…" He gestured to the contract. He handed Harry a hawk quill. Fingering the quill lightly, Harry dipped the tip in the small, ornate bottle of ink sitting on the desktop and leaned forward, jolting down his messy signature within seconds. The ink glowed brightly for several moments then faded back to black. For some reason, his stomach felt laden down with stones as he stared at his signature glistening on the paper. Harry handed the parchment back wordlessly.

"When will I get to see him?"

--------

Draco Malfoy's entrance was nothing special. In fact, if anything it bespoke a need to be concealed, a desperate want to draw as little attention as possible. Unfortunately, the Aurors flanking him on either side made that nearly impossible.

Harry was standing in the middle of a circular, stone room. There were two large, overlapping circles reminiscent of a Muggle Venn diagram outlined on the floor. Harry stood in one; the other was meant for Malfoy. It was here that they were going to perform the Linking Spell.

Across the way, the appointed spell caster stood quietly, watching Malfoy walk in at a slow, cautious pace. Malfoy's head was tilted down, his un-gelled hair falling lankly past his ears. It had grown nearly passed his chin, Harry noted vaguely. It seemed so odd how quiet and compliant Malfoy was being as if he had no choice at all; he realised half a second later that this was actually the case.

"Please stand there," the spell caster instructed, pointing towards the empty circle.

As he neared, Harry felt the barrier enclosing the spheres open and envelope Malfoy, and he stepped into place. He faced Harry wordlessly, his mouth in a thin, firm line. Their eyes caught, Harry's curious but subdued, Malfoy's guarded and tired. Neither regarded the other with anything but tired resistance and forceful agreement.

The spell castor picked up a small silver knife; Harry looked at it warily as he got closer.

"Hold out your hand, please," he commanded to Harry.

Cautiously, Harry lifted his hand and extended it towards the wizard. He knew what the spell caster was going to do a fraction of a second too late; he hissed as the dagger slit through the skin of his palm in one swift, clean movement.

Without a word of explanation, the spell caster turned to Draco and indicated that he do the same. However, when the wizard did the same thing to Malfoy, he made a long, thin slit down his entire palm, making Harry wince at the amount of blood that welled up. Malfoy barely even flinched as he stared at the crimson liquid. He had a hard, faraway look in his eyes.

"Why is he required to give so much blood?" Harry asked regardless of the unwritten expectation of silence from him.

The spell caster looked like he was not used to people questioning him. "His wound is more extensive because he is the one linking himself to you. He needs a significantly small amount to complete the transaction." He stepped out of the circle. "Repeat the words "Ligare corporalis" three times when I tell you, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded to show he had heard.

"Now," the wizard commanded, "take Mister Malfoy's hand and press your palms together."

Harry did not look at Malfoy as he grasped the blond's limp, cold, blood-slicked hand in his own. He hoped vehemently that Malfoy did not have some weird disease that he had not mentioned, because is he did, Harry was fucked.

The second Harry slid the cuts together, he felt a zip of energy flow from Malfoy's hand to his own hand and up his arm; automatically Malfoy and he simultaneously threaded their fingers together. He tried not to think about the picture their bloody hands made.

"Please recite the spell," the spell caster instructed.

"Ligare corporalis," Harry said carefully, making sure to correctly pronounce the Latin words.

As soon as he spoke, he heard Malfoy gasp and quickly looked up. Malfoy lifted his head and stared at Harry, and he saw Malfoy's eyes dilate minutely. He did not know what the blond was feeling, but he obviously had not expected it.

"And again."

"Ligare corporalis."

This time, Harry felt something strange and probing, almost warm but not hot, squirming through their jointed hands. He mirrored Malfoy's earlier sound as he felt something connect with his magic, and without question he knew it was Malfoy's core. Something in the back of his mind felt like it was snapping into place.

Without needing to be told, Harry recanted the spell one more time. Abruptly, Harry had to close his eyes as everything became sharply focused on one thing: Malfoy. He heard the rapid beating of the blond's heart, the blood rushing through his veins, the quick, sharp bursts of breath. He was suddenly swamped with the aroma of sable, musk, and a scent close to the spiced fragrance of a broom handle. The grip on his hand tightened; Malfoy whimpered so softly that the others in the room would not have heard him, but the sound was reflected loud and clear for Harry in a way that was entirely too pseudo-sexual.

In a split instant, the sensation left him. He heard himself panting and he slowly came back to himself to see that their hands had separated. Malfoy's eyes were shut, his head tilted back and mouth open, trying to catch his breath. His cheek flushed and, as Harry watched, his small pink slip of a tongue darted across his lips. Realising what he was doing, Harry quickly looked away, a dark blush staining his cheeks.

Silently, the spell castor handed twin goblets to both Harry and Malfoy; he must have filled them while they were distracted. Harry brought the goblet to his lips and drank greedily of the liquid. It was cool and tingled throughout his body, causing Harry to flex his fingers and look at them curiously as they started to prickle.

He felt an unexplainable pull towards Malfoy but stayed within the boundaries of his circle. He could tell Malfoy was feeling the same thing because he was looking at him with the the strangest expression written all over his face. It made Harry's stomach do flip-flops.

"The tugging sensation will fade in a few moments," the spell castor explained.

His voice jarred Harry for a second; he had totally forgotten the other wizard was there. Harry did not trust his vocal cords to work properly, so he merely nodded in place of speaking. Malfoy did not move. After some time had passed, the pull had dulled to almost nothing.

"Is-" Harry cleared his throat, "is there anything else we need to do?"

The spell castor shook his head. "You may exit the room."

Harry nodded, "Thank you," and stepped out of the circle with Malfoy not a three steps behind. He quickly made his way over to the door they had come through and was greeted with the face of his headmistress and law wizard.

Ed stared at the quiet Malfoy standing beside Harry and nodded.

"So, you've been linked, then." It was not a question, Harry knew, but rather an obvious statement.

"Yeah," he answered anyway. He glanced at the large clock swinging at the end of the hall. "It's almost nine o'clock. Can we leave now?"

"There's still a few things I must do, but you and Mister Malfoy are free to go," Ed sighed. "Professor McGonagall and some Ministry personnel will escort you back to Hogwarts."

-------------

Harry could not help looking over at Malfoy as they were walking, and he tugged on his arm again to feel the invisible string pull taunt for a split second, just long enough so that if Harry were not looking he would know where he was. True to the spell caster's word, the sensation had dimmed; now Harry only felt it when he concentrated on the bond or they separated more than ten feet. Malfoy turned to see him staring and accessed him with expressionless eyes.

Harry looked down.

They passed the fifth floor and then the sixth all the way to the seventh, where the Room of Requirement was located. The two Aurors who had escorted them back to Hogwarts had left after McGonagall dismissed them.

McGonagall turned the corner, and Harry recognized the blank stretch of wall that hid the door to the room. If one did not know what to look for (though, fortunately, Harry did), the chances of finding the room accidentally were slim to none. Harry was a bit surprised to find that the door appeared almost as soon as McGonagall neared it; Harry remembered having to pace in front of it four or five times before it would show up.

A sudden memory popped from the mist of his subconscious of himself walking along the corridor endlessly the year before, wanting to know desperately what Draco Malfoy had been doing there. Well, he had found out, hadn't he?

"Ah, good," McGonagall murmured as she opened the door.

She moved aside to let Harry and Malfoy in front of her. Harry immediately appreciated the soft, pastel blue colour. There appeared to be only one room, but it was decent-sized and cosy to boot. A pair of twin beds stood at one end of the room with two bureaus, wardrobes, and nightstands. At the other end of the room, there was a loaded bookshelf and by the bookshelf there were two big, comfortable-looking armchairs, presumably for them to sit and pass the time; it had been agreed between Harry and the Order that he and Malfoy would be able to move into 12 Grimmauld Place by the next week.

A merry fire danced in the stone fireplace immediately to Harry's right, and he was surprised to see moonlight streaming into the room.

"Professor?" he questioned.

McGonagall followed Harry's line of sight and nodded slightly. "Enchanted windows."

"Oh."

McGonagall stopped and pointed over a door that Harry had just noticed and said, "That leads to the lavatory and restroom facilities. You should find all of your toiletries in there. Your clothing has already been placed in the wardrobes opposite you. If you need anything else, simply think of it, and the room should supply it."

She paused and turned around to face the two men.

"Of course, there are monitoring spells all over this room, so I or one of the other staff members will be alerted if anything should go wrong. All the same," she glided to one of the nightstands and pick up what looked like a small, painted stone designed to be a paperweight; "this is equipped to allow you direct conversation with myself or Madame Pomfrey if the need for immediate assistance should arise."

She placed the stone back down on the tabletop and then stood there for a moment as she took a long breath.

"So, is there anything else you would like to know about before I leave you both to rest?"

Harry thought for a few seconds then shook his head. Beside him, Malfoy did the same, albeit the motion was smaller and more subdued.

"Marvellous," McGonagall said. "Well, I shall be taking my leave in that case. Take care, and do not hesitate to speak up if you need anything. I will be contacting you tomorrow, of course. Until then, goodnight."

With that, she quickly exited the room, leaving Harry staring after her and wishing she had stayed a little longer if only to stave off the time he knew he would inevitably have to spend in Malfoy's presence. Now that he was alone with him, he did not know what to do.

Harry bit his lip and stood in the middle of the room awkwardly. Malfoy was as quiet as he had been at the Ministry, which provided no comfort for the brunet. If anything, Malfoy's silence made it more difficult for Harry to think of something to say. He was unbelievably relieved when Malfoy spoke up first.

"It's alright to hate me, you know," Malfoy spoke to him for the first time that night.

His black-cloaked body made no movement to announce he had spoken, not even a hair swayed in the air. He was facing the window; he had been since they first entered the room.

"Sorry?" Harry thought he had heard wrong.

"It's okay to hate me." Malfoy turned around to stare Harry full in the face. His voice was so soft that Harry wondered if he was not imagining that, too. "I'd hate me, too, if I were you."

Harry frowned but did not say anything. Telling Malfoy he did not hate him would be a slap in the face, so Harry stayed silent, at a loss for words. Malfoy shrugged as if this was the reaction he had expected and turned back towards the window again. He did not talk for a long time, and when he did he asked one word: "Why?"

"What?" Harry asked confusedly.

"Why did you do it?" Malfoy repeated, turning to face him with searching eyes. "Why did you stop them from putting me in Azkaban?"

Harry looked at him with bewilderment lining his expression.

"How could I not?" he said. "You're still too wea…sick to be someplace, anyplace like that."

"But, that, surely that can't be the only reason," Malfoy pushed, missing or perhaps ignoring Harry's slip. "No one would do that for someone like me because of a health risk. Why, Potter?"

"I already told you," Harry explained exasperatedly. "I did it because you would have gotten sick and ended up losing your mind, that's why."

Malfoy shook his head.

"No," he stated stubbornly. Harry was annoyed with Malfoy's obstinate reply but did not show it.

"Why do you find it so hard to believe that I would do something helpful for you?" Harry questioned.

"Because no one does, Potter," Malfoy answered resolutely.

"Well, I'm not everyone else!" Harry said angrily.

"No, you're just the Saviour of the fucking Wizarding World, aren't you?" Malfoy spat.

Harry's eyes narrowed at Malfoy's statement.

"Well, I'm sorry!" Harry threw his hands up, "Next time I'll leave you to rot in Azkaban. Is that what you want? _Is it_?"

"No! I - I just…"

Harry watched as Malfoy uncharacteristically stuttered and ran one hand through his hair. Harry waited silently until finally Malfoy sighed.

"It's almost stupid now, all the shit I gave you over the years. I don't know why I did it, so don't ask me. Maybe I was just angry at you for causing all of the trouble with my family…I don't know. All I ask of you during the next few months is to just…" Malfoy trailed off, and his eyes glazed over and rested on the sill of the window; "just please leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" Harry retorted, though not as harshly as he could have. "How am I supposed to do that? I can't let you out of my sight anymore, not even to go to the bloody loo."

Malfoy was quiet for a moment. Perhaps he heard the cold truth in Harry's voice and did not want to face that yet. Perhaps he was embarrassed over the fact that he was constantly going to be watched like a child. Or, maybe he simply did not feel like talking.

"Whatever, Potter," Malfoy said tiredly after about two minutes had gone by. "I don't really give a shit."

Harry really wanted to push the point, but the way Malfoy stood and sounded stopped him. Harry could practically feel the weariness radiating off the wizard, and he suddenly felt guilty. Harry's eyes flickered over the fatigued lines of Malfoy's face and stayed silent.

"Look," Harry sighed after a while, "I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep. I don't want to think about all of this until tomorrow. Maybe it will make more sense then."

He looked at Malfoy but did not catch his eye.

"Just expect to answer some questions when you wake up."

Malfoy did seem to hear this, however, and nodded minutely, just enough for Harry to see. Harry nodded back at him and went on.

"I'm going to be straight with you when I say I don't like you. I never have and might not ever will. But I promise you I will try. I don't know if this will be good enough, but I'll try. I need you to promise me the same."

Harry strode over to where Malfoy was staring at the floor and waited until he looked up. Harry was startled at the pain he saw deep in those depths, but beneath it he saw rage, intelligence, strength, and curiosity. It was the curiosity that sparked Harry's interest.

"Will you promise me you will try as hard as you can to make this work, Malfoy?" Harry asked softly, still staring into those silvery eyes.

Malfoy simply studied him for a long moment. Harry could practically see the cogs and wheels turning in his head but had no idea as to what he might be thinking. After a while, Harry saw that hidden pain dim a little, and his chest loosened from a hold he had not even know it was in. The next words Malfoy said meant more than Harry could understand.

"I promise."

Harry went to sleep that night in a strange room on new sheets smelling of lilacs and fresh air, hearing soft breathing in the bed next to his, and he could not help thinking that maybe this might not be so hard after all.

**End of Chapter Seven.**

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**A/N**: M'kay, so you know that you want to review. Go ahead. Just do it.


	8. A Strange Sort of War

**Title: **System Discordia

**Author: **Eris Mackenzie

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers: **SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing: **Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings: **Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary: **After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the Light? Post-HBP slash

**A/N: **M'kay, so I was kind of down about the fact that I got so few reviews for the last chapter...but I guess I should be happy anyone reviewed at all, nein? Thanks to those who did review. Enjoy the chapter.

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**Chapter Eight: A Strange Sort of War**

_"Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways." --Stephen Vincent __Benét_

----------------

For the second time in a week and a half, Harry woke up confused as to where he was. In time, though, he recognised his surroundings and remembered he was in the Room of Requirement. With Malfoy. Harry's eyes widened marginally, and he quickly turned his head in the direction of the other bed.

It was empty. The light blue sheets were neatly folded as if the occupant had never been there at all.

With befuddlement now as well as curiosity, Harry sat up and kicked the covers off of his legs. He was just about to get up when he heard the familiar sound of a showerhead running and saw light spilling out from underneath the door leading to the bathroom. Ah, Malfoy was taking a shower.

Harry gave a sigh, grateful that he had not screwed up already, and leaned back on his pillows for a second. He ran a lazy hand over his eyes and fought the urge to go back to sleep. Going back to sleep would mean he was not watching Malfoy as closely as he should, and another bonus to staying awake was that he would be able to question Malfoy about, well, a lot of things. Also, the thought of Malfoy watching him sleep was just plain creepy.

Groaning as his logic won out, Harry rolled out of bed. His feet landed flat on the cold floor, already tracking him toward the set of wardrobes where his clothes supposedly were hung. He stopped still in front of the two closets, though, when he realised he did not know which one of them was his. He stood there scratching his head before he scoffed at himself and picked one at random to open.

The one on the left turned out to be his, and he quickly grabbed a long grey tee-shirt, mismatched socks, and a pair of faded jeans that he had kept for about four years now. There was a rip in the left knee and were a bit tighter than necessary, but Harry liked them and had kept them despite Hermione's repeated attempts over the years to throw them away.

As he was tugging on his jeans with one hand and his shirt with the other, Harry heard a tapping sound. Frowning, he hurriedly straightened his clothes and looked about but could not find the source of the noise. It sounded like a beak against metal, but there were not any owls at the window and Hedwig had not - wait, Hedwig!

With sudden understanding, Harry turned toward the small cage in the corner of the room that was half-covered with a familiar ink-spotted rag. The house elves must have transported her there accidentally the night before. Through the small golden bars, he spotted Hedwig's indignant stare.

"Alright girl, I hear you," Harry sighed as he strode over and unlocked the cage door.

Hedwig gave a cool '_who_' and glared at him for not noticing her before.

"Hey, I'm sorry!" Harry protested, "I didn't know you were here, Hedwig, or I would have let you out sooner. Although," he stopped and glanced about; "you might have to stay in the Owlery for a little while. I don't see a way for you to get around at all, and the window isn't real."

He petted Hedwig's soft, pure white feathers apologetically. She seemed to understand what Harry was talking about because she hooted again, kindly this time, and gave him a gentle nip on the finger for his trouble. The brunet smiled and leaned in for her to settle her claws on his arm before gently lifting her out and walking over to the door.

He bit his lip as he tried to think of a way for her to get to the Owlery, but he could not think of anything short of walking her there himself. Luckily, Hedwig caught on to Harry's train of thought and flapped her wings towards the door.

"You want me to open the door?" Harry asked.

Hedwig blinked her golden, tawny eyes once and ruffled her wings again.

Taking Hedwig's answer as a 'yes,' Harry trudged over to the door and yanked it open to reveal the lofty corridor outside. The stone hallway was quiet in the still of the morning, and no students tramped about its floor unnecessarily. Harry could not resist a small smile as he took in a deep breath of fresh morning air that had somehow leaked all the way up here.

The weight from his arm lifted suddenly, and Harry turned his head to see Hedwig take flight in the hallway. She gave a soft hoot, and Harry felt a small, forlorn smile lift the corners of his mouth as he waved in the owl's direction. So content was he with watching Hedwig disappear down the corridor that he did not notice how long he had stayed out in the corridor until a creak in the woodwork suddenly snapped him out of his reverie. He shook his head when he realised he was daydreaming and quickly back-stepped into the room.

He had just shut the door when he saw Malfoy standing in the middle of the room. Malfoy was fully dressed in expensive-looking, black wizarding robes that were identical to the ones Harry had remembered him wearing before, and he was rubbing a fluffy white towel in his damp hair to dry it off. He did not say anything, which led Harry to believe that either he had not realised Harry had been standing in the hallway, he had figured it out already, or he did not care to know. Harry bet on the second and third options.

"Where were you?" Malfoy asked calmly. Ah, well, maybe Harry did not know everything after all.

"Hedwig was in her cage, and she kept tapping at the bars. She was probably hungry and needed to be let out. I didn't want to just leave her there, so I took her out of her cage to go to the Owlery. So, er, yeah," Harry finished lamely after he realised he was rambling.

There was an air of expectancy for an answer, but Malfoy did not say anything in reply. Instead, he merely nodded his head vaguely as he dropped the towel on his bed and reached for a brush on the nightstand. He dragged the bristles through his shampoo-tangled hair mechanically.

Harry felt that same tugging around his bellybutton from yesterday and noticed that Malfoy did not really seem there. Not wanting to draw unnecessary questions as to why he was paying such close attention to the ex-Death Eater, he kept silent.

Malfoy moved from his position beside his bed and stood in front of a mirror that hung on the wall above one of the bureaus. The mirror was a perfect oval with silver wrought all around a steel frame in dainty swirls, sharp edges, and ambiguous shapes. The metal matched Malfoy's eyes to a T, Harry noted absentmindedly.

The black robes Malfoy wore parted to reveal dressy black trousers, the creases still crisp from starching, a smart, green button-down shirt that was cuffed at the wrists with miniature silver snakes, and a tiny emerald dotted each eye. Harry, also, noticed that Malfoy was wearing a pair of expensive loafers - of course, in black and probably outfitted in dragon's skin or something as equally high-priced. He wondered suddenly if Malfoy ever went without shoes; he did not look as if he ever relaxed at all. Harry shook his head, bemused at the unexpected turn of his thoughts.

"Where did you get the clothes?" Harry's mouth asked before his mind had caught up.

Malfoy's eyes connected with Harry's in the mirror, and his thin mouth pursed. "I may be stuck with you, Potter, but I'm not poor," he said expressionlessly. "The Ministry can't touch my assets yet until after the trial."

Harry did not know what to say. He felt awkward in the silence that followed so he turned his attention inward onto the questions he wanted to ask Malfoy. Unfortunately, Malfoy was in a strange, impassive state, and Harry was not sure how to react to this new, quiet version; a Q&A when he could not predict Malfoy's reactions to his questions might not go so well. He definitely wanted to know about how far Malfoy had been into the Death Eater Rebellion; he wanted to know every detail - that is, except what had happened in Malfoy Manor. Harry would not expect Malfoy to tell him, and quite frankly he did not really want to know. Seeing it was enough.

Harry must have been looking at Malfoy as he was thinking, because the blond suddenly spoke up.

"Enjoying the sight, Potter?" Malfoy said in an amused and slightly hostile tone.

Harry started and jerked back, a hot blush filling his cheeks. "Oh, bugger off," Harry muttered darkly as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Curiously, something foreign rippled over Malfoy's face, but when Harry lowered his eyes to get a better look, Malfoy turned away.

"What is it you want to know?" Malfoy questioned a moment later. His tone of voice was so aloof and business-like that Harry was taken back for a second at the blunt approach to conversation. He quickly recovered and thought that maybe it would not be so hard if Malfoy was actually willing to open up.

"Er, so you want to sit down first, or…?" Harry left the end of his statement open to suggestion.

Malfoy just shrugged in a nonchalant way. "Whatever you want. I don't care either way."

"Alright," Harry nodded. "On to the chairs, then." He gestured to the two big armchairs angled toward each other beside the decorative window.

He walked over and sat down heavily on the embroidered chair; Malfoy followed suit. Harry outlined the light tracery on the arm of the chair with his finger as he waited for either Malfoy to speak or for his brain to supply him with a question that would not dive too deep for the start of the conversation. He did not want to just ask something off the top of his head and chance Malfoy getting pissed off at him so soon.

Finally, Harry thought he had settled on a vague enough topic and stated, albeit a bit awkwardly, "So, er, you helped with the Rebellion?"

After a moment, Malfoy nodded. "Yes, my father and I were the head honchos, I suppose one could say."

"How did you get into it?"

"What do you mean?" Malfoy glanced over at Harry.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. Why you did it, I guess, how you did it."

"Well, I suppose we were just…" Malfoy bit his lip, though Harry did not think it was a conscious gesture. "I guess we were just tired of being ruled."

A sudden voice spoke up in Harry's head, so familiar, so soft, but he could not place it.

"_They are tired of being ruled, Draco. _I _am tired of being ruled."_

Harry shook his head, dispelling the vision away.

Malfoy's eyes glinted as he spoke, the words softly accented with thoughts of pain and suffering and loss. "There's more to the 'why' part than you could possibly know. I know we've never seen eye-to-eye, Potter; in fact, I think this is the most we've spoken to one another without fists flying. We were not all like him. We were not all unfeeling monsters. Some of us knew what we were doing was wrong, that it wasn't right, but we also knew that if we stopped we'd be killing ourselves _and_ our families. Yeah, sure, you can tell me that I made the choice before and that it was my own fault, and you'd be right. I made the choice to throw my life away. I made the choice to kill my family. Trust me, Potter, I know what I did more than anyone else can possibly guilt me into."

"I'm not here to guilt you into anything," Harry said before he could stop himself. He did not have time to think on his words, though, before Malfoy spoke again.

"Do not be so sure, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "Why else would you take me on? Do you honestly believe I don't know you had a vengeful thought in there? I'm not naïve, and for some reason I don't think you're as dumb as you appear to be either. We all have hidden agendas, Potter, and you're no different."

Harry narrowed his eyes and retorted, "You still think I'm doing this just to get back at you, don't you? Gods, Malfoy, did it not get through your head that I don't blame you for what happened? Don't be ridiculous. I mean, maybe _you_ would, but some of us actually have a conscience."

"And you think I don't?" Malfoy snapped. "Did I not just tell you that I regret what I did, or was the wording too complex for you thick-headed skull to take in? You know, sometimes -"

Harry watched as Malfoy forced himself to cut off mid-sentence. He could practically see the blond forcefully push the tension out of himself, his face blank and fists going slack again. Harry was surprised, to say the least. While they had not immediately gotten into an argument, he had thought it would only be a matter of time before they were biting each other's head off. Apparently, though, Malfoy had other ideas. Or, maybe he just thought that pissing Harry off so early was not a good idea. Either way, it threw Harry for a loophole. They sat there silently until Malfoy spoke next, and his had gone eerily calm.

"You know, sometimes," Malfoy started with the same words he had before, but this time they were soft, almost mournful, "when I'd have to go out on a mission, I knew that I was damned for what I was doing. I've murdered dozens, Potter, hundreds just this summer. All for my own. Do you know what that's like? The look in their eyes right before the Killing Curse hits them…" Malfoy shook his head; "It's like nothing I've ever seen. First, it's almost like they can't believe it, like they don't want to. But then, when their eyes widen, you can see they understand that they're going to die. In that split second, their whole life is there for you to read. The anger, the love…denial and helplessness. But the one emotion I always saw last was resignation because they knew what was to happen, and they knew they couldn't fight it anymore. Do you know what that's like, Potter? Because I sure as hell don't think you want to know."

Harry was quiet for a long time, hours it seemed. The memories he tried so hard to block out came flooding back; memories he wish he had never, ever had. Memories of a boy not much older than himself that had so reminded him of Malfoy.

"Actually, Malfoy, I _do_ know, or have you forgotten already?" Harry asked quietly. "And you're right, I sure as hell wish I didn't."

Harry saw the expression of remembrance, regret, and possibly guilt flit across the face of his once enemy before he got up and walked out of the room.

--------

Much of the day passed uneventfully until McGonagall announced her visit later that day.

"Good afternoon," the headmistress said as she opened the door.

Harry felt a whoosh of enchantments immediately categorise and configure to meet her needs. A third chair appeared beside the two armchairs already present, and she gestured towards them.

"I see the room is working sufficiently," she commented dryly.

Malfoy stood from the armchair near the window but sat as the headmistress beckoned him to sit back down. He did so with a slightly confused look on his face. Harry sat beside him and looked up at McGonagall expectantly.

"As I'm sure you have not forgotten about the tracking device, you probably have already guessed as to why I'm here," McGonagall started. Actually, Harry had not thought about it at all since the day before, but he did not say anything to the contrary. Harry's eyes narrowed as he noticed there was a distinct note of unease surrounding McGonagall. Malfoy, too, seemed to see this and watched her closely.

"The Ministry was very strict in making sure that it was delivered today. I -"

"What is it?" Harry interjected.

McGonagall gave him an odd look. "The tracking device, Mister Potter."

"No," Harry countered, "I mean, what is the tracking device?"

The headmistress sighed and shifted in her seat. Instead of answering verbally, McGonagall just sighed and stuck her hands in one of the many folds of her robe. She pawed around, Malfoy and Harry both silent, and finally withdrew something clutched tightly in her right hand.

Harry winced as he realised just what it looked like.

Beside him he heard Malfoy suck in a sort of half-breath through his clenched teeth. When Harry turned to look at him, his grey eyes were wide and disbelieving. The Ministry personnel were bitter arseholes, but this was crossing a line that not even Harry would intersect.

"You can't seriously expect him to wear that," Harry said in disbelief.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my choice. The Ministry had already sent the tracking device by the time -"

" - A collar?" Malfoy said in shock. Immediately, Harry's gaze snapped to the blond as he continued on in weak tones. "They want me to wear a collar as the tracking device?"

McGonagall sighed bit had seemed to expect this kind of reaction. "Unfortunately, yes. It's not quite a 'collar,' but more of a -"

"It's a collar," Malfoy interrupted with more anger in his voice. His eyes flashed like silver bullets as his shock started wearing off, and his fury and embarrassment quickly replaced it. "Don't even try to sugar-coat it, because we can all see what it is. It's a bloody _collar_." Harry saw Malfoy's fists clench atop the armrests. "What, am I an _animal_ now?"

Harry contemplated telling Malfoy that it was not actually a collar, so to speak, but more of a plain black choker than anything else, but somehow he doubted that was what Malfoy wanted to hear at the moment. Malfoy shook his head, his cheeks a flushed and angry red as he looked at the black band McGonagall held in her hand.

"They could have given me a watch, a ring, _anythin_g, but instead they gave me something fit for a dog?"

"Please, Mister Malfoy, I understand how you must feel -"

"No," Malfoy raged, "no, you have no idea what I feel right now."

He glared at Harry for a second then back at McGonagall.

"Neither of you do. Don't ever assume any other way," he sneered coldly, looking for all the world like the Malfoy Harry remembered. "Perhaps I expected too much for your side to be a little more fair than the one I left. I mean, I expected jeers, insults - hell, even beatings! But what I did not expect was this…this _blatant _offence thrown in my face. I've tried to be calm and compliant with whatever was asked of me, but this-this is just -"

Malfoy let his sentence die before it left his lips. His whole body shook with rage he was just barely clinging onto with the skin of his teeth. Harry stared apprehensively at Malfoy as he visibly forced himself to settle down. McGonagall watched steadily from behind her cat eye glasses but did not say anything.

"No," Malfoy said finally a few minutes later with a shuttered look in his eyes. "Perhaps I _should _have expected this." All went silent except for the sound of his rapid breathing.

Harry swore he could see Malfoy folding back into himself. He could already discern the distant look creeping back into Malfoy's eyes and wiping his face and body of any emotion. Strangely, Harry did not want that to happen. He wanted the real Malfoy to come back out, not the cold, calm mask. The other Malfoy he knew how to deal with.

"…As I said before, Mister Malfoy, I apologise for this lack of politeness on the Ministry's behalf. What you must understand, however, is that when you," McGonagall hesitated as she searched for tact wording; "did what you've done, so many people in the wizarding world were hurt, both emotionally and physically. Most people do not forgive something like that easily - some never do."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy shake his head and close his eyes.

"Just put it on," he said dimly.

McGonagall looked like she wanted to say something else but held back before she could open her mouth. "As you wish," she frowned.

She got up from her armchair and circled around Malfoy. The ex-Slytherin just stared ahead expressionlessly, but his jaw was clenched and his cheeks still flushed with angry, red spots.

When the headmistress moved closer to Malfoy, the black band separated in the middle to fall into one long ribbon. The material shimmered when she placed it around his neck and held the two ends together.

"Mister Potter," McGonagall called, "I require your assistance. Please hold this for a moment."

Uncertainly, Harry stood up and walked behind Malfoy to do as the headmistress requested. The band was soft in his hands, like velvet, yet was at the same time reminiscent of pliant leather. Harry thanked the unknown person who had been kind enough to make sure that the material was not something that would irritate Malfoy's skin.

Harry stared at the back of Malfoy's bowed neck as he heard McGonagall recite a short incantation, presumably to fuse the band together and activate the tracking spell. The material glowed a bright red for about two and a half seconds then faded back to the original black. Harry lingered for a moment, the warmth of Malfoy's skin drawing him in, before he hurriedly dropped his hands. He walked back to his seat, trying to ignore the feel of the soft fluff on the nape of Malfoy's neck. His fingers tingled as he sat down.

"If there's nothing else, Professor?" Harry asked, leaving the rest to be understood. He glanced over at Malfoy as he waited for McGonagall to answer.

McGonagall nodded and replied, "I suppose, Mister Potter. Just to let you know, despite the fact that I doubt you don't already, Mister Malfoy cannot take the device off until such a time that a Ministry member does so. If he tries to take it off, it will be reported to the Ministry and kept record of."

Harry nodded. Beside him, Malfoy just stared at the floor. McGonagall stood up and smoothed her hands down her robes to shake out the wrinkles.

"I wish you both good luck," she said before she walked toward the door. "Oh, and you received a letter, Mister Potter."

With a flick of her wand, a large cream envelope appeared on the desk. Harry immediately recognised the spindly writing as Christoffer Grigore's.

McGonagall gave a stretched smile and turned the door handle.

Harry sighed when she left and closed his eyes for a second. He could not hear anything for a good five minutes, bar the soft breathing of the blond next to him. It was curious, but despite the fact that Malfoy was still technically a Death Eater and had probably been learning Dark Magic since he was able to hold a wand, Harry did not feel unsafe in his presence. He relaxed a bit further before taking a deep breath, opening his eyes, and forcing himself out of the chair. Walking over to the desk and picking up the letter, he saw that it was indeed from Christoffer

He heard Malfoy shift behind him but did not bother turning around. A moment later, he heard the door to the loo open and shut. He sighed, not for the last time, and opened the letter.

-------------

As he had predicted, Christoffer was quick to hear of Harry's involvement in the Malfoy case. The letter had been quite long and condescending, though encouraging at the same time, all the while being as vague as possible. Harry smirked a little as he thought about how it was just like the Ministry worker to be as confusing as he could manage. Harry made a mental note to respond soon.

After the headmistress had left, Harry went back to the previous silent and uncomfortable atmosphere. At the moment, Harry was lying on his side on his still unmade bed, watching the sunset from the charmed window. Malfoy was sitting on his own bed reading a thick tome from one of the shelves. Food had been sent up about an hour ago, but neither Malfoy nor Harry were hungry, and the plates had barely been touched when the house elves came by later to retrieve them.

Since McGonagall had exited, they had been silent, trying to avoid the other and pretend they were not there as much as possible. Malfoy had sat for a long time in the armchair, though thinking of what, Harry did not know. Talking about anything, for one, had definitely proved an out. Every once in a while, Harry would catch Malfoy studying him through his lashes with a concentrated expression on his face. He wondered whether Malfoy had figured anything out yet.

Contrary to what Malfoy probably thought, Harry did understand why he had gotten so angry over the collar. Even Harry would have blown a gasket had he been presented with something like that, but for Malfoy - a pureblood, wealthy wizard - it was a slap in the face. To have had the world at his beck and call and now to have fallen so low, it must have been more humiliating than Harry could fathom. To make matters even worse, the Ministry had to chose the single most derisive and acrimonious object that they could find.

A pureblood treated like a slave. No wonder Malfoy did not see an advantage to this side.

He tried not to pay attention to Malfoy's stares after a while; he did not want to, not with the feelings Malfoy dredged up merely by speaking with him. Harry shook his head. It was true, maybe something was twisted around in Harry ever since that summer, but he could not help seeing another face when he looked at Malfoy. Not really another face, he reasoned, but one that haunted him nightly, a pale face that simpered deep within his dreams. One that whispered to him his guilt, his darkness, his shame.

Harry stood up and crossed the room when the sun started to go down. His movement caused the floorboards to squeak slightly, and Malfoy's head jerked up at the small sound. He did not say anything, though, as he watched Harry stride into the bathroom, leaving him alone in the bedroom.

Once Harry shut the door, he let out a soft sigh. Every moment he stayed in the bedroom felt like he was under a microscope. He turned toward the rather large shower stall in the corner of the room and saw through the rippled glass some hair products that looked like they were his. When he opened the door to make sure, he found out he was right.

He stalked back into the shared bedroom and rummaged through his drawers to find pyjamas. He pulled out a pair of red and gold boxers that had 'GO GRYFFINDOR!' boldly printed all over them that Ron had given him one Christmas, blue flannel pants, and a white tee-shirt. When he thought of the chill of the floorboards, Harry, also, picked up a pair of thick, woollen socks. He walked back into the bathroom without even once glancing Malfoy's way.

Once he had the shower going, it did not take long for the water to warm up. He had to hold back a relieved groan when the jet of hot water first hit his shoulders. It was the best feeling he had felt after being so cold all day. He squeezed his eyes tight when he tilted his head back, and the droplets slid down his face. He stood there for a long while, not caring to count the minutes, until everything from his nose down to the tips of his toes had gotten warmed enough to move.

Reaching out blindly, he grasped the first bottle his hand came in contact with, which mercifully happened to be the right one. Harry poured some of the cool liquid into his hand and quickly transferred it to his hair before it slid off his palm. The chemical smell that seemed to be the signature scent of every shampoo soon filled the humid air in the shower. He rinsed out his hair, but the scent remained. It was relaxing to Harry, who allowed his head to tilt to the right and rest against the cold glass while the stream continued to rain down on him.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his scar as he sighed. Ever since the end of the summer, he had not had any visions period. It did not hurt anymore as it had before, nor did it bleed or ache, which in itself Harry had grown accustomed to. Harry was almost grateful that his scar was behaving like any other normal scar, but the lack of troubles had him worried about what Voldemort might be hiding.

A small thump came from the bedroom, and Harry frowned. At first, he thought he should get out, but then he remembered that the room was under strict instructions not to allow Malfoy to leave. There were, also, so many spells on the room that even _if_ Malfoy had still had his wand - which he most certainly did not - and tried to cast a first year _Expelliarmus_, he would have been flooed to Azkaban before he could say, 'Bugger'.

Fortunately, there were no other strange noises after that, and Harry attributed it to a book falling or something of a similar nature. Maybe Malfoy had knocked himself unconscious so that Harry would not have to deal with him when he got out.

Harry noticed his eyes falling shut, and he quickly shook his head to get himself awake. It did not work very well, but he woke up slightly either way. With a yawn, he grabbed the soap and worked up a bunch of suds. He ran his slippery hands over his shoulders and chest before working his way down and then finally rinsed off the soap before he washed his face. He was always particular when it came to cleaning himself; getting dirty he could handle, but he hated not being thorough when he washed.

Within time, however, he realised just how long he had lingered under the comforting heat of the water. He finished rinsing off one final time, and, reluctantly, he turned off the shower. He opened the door and grabbed one of the towels that Malfoy had used to dry his hair and, without thinking of whether or not Malfoy had used the same one, wrapped it around himself quickly. The chill got in through the open door before he got a chance to completely dry off, and he shivered as he squeezed the water out of his hair.

Harry took his time pulling his clothes on. He was tired, from what he did not know, but it was undeniable that he was. The shower, while providing a much needed balm for his nerves, had made him even more weary. It was probably from the tension he had been feeling the whole day from sitting in one room with Malfoy of all people.

Harry decided he might as well get ready for bed, so he finished brushing his hair and teeth and folded the towel before hanging it back up. He almost stepped in a small puddle of water he had left on the floor but evaded it at the last moment. He considered cleaning it up for a moment but then decided that the room could take care of it.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see that Malfoy was already in his bed. He quickly shut off the light when he saw the blond shift under the covers. Walking into the room cautiously, Harry made sure not to step on the especially squeaky boards as he made his way over to his own bed.

The cool cotton sheets felt like clouds when he finally got the chance to lay down on them. Again, Harry had to stifle a groan of appreciation for the softness of the mattress. It was pure heaven.

He glanced at the clock. It read just past 9:54 post meridian, which was quite early for him to normally be going to sleep, but that was alright. He yawned. He needed to catch up on sleep anyway.

------------

"_I'm sorry to ask you this…"_

Harry moaned softly in his sleep, tossing his head to one side.

"_Ask me what, Father?"_

"_You know our Master has lost his purpose, Draco, gone insane. You know of the discontent among his ranks."_

_There was silence for a few moments, then came a soft reply._

"_Yes, Father, I know."_

_Harry got the impression of someone nodding his head. His sleeping mind slowly became filled with images - Malfoy standing in a study, his father, Lucius, sitting behind an ornately carved desk. Harry grew even more confused as he watched the scene unfold right in front of his eyes, but he eventually became aware of an itching feeling in the back of his throat, like a cough that was just starting to build. _

"_What I must ask you is something dangerous. You will be killed if you are found out."_

"_Draco nodded. "Yes, Father, I understand. What is it you would have me do?"_

_Lucius stared at his only son for a moment sadly. "We are to lead a rebellion against our lord. The second sector of the ranks in both Ireland and Scotland have agreed to help."_

"_The whole of the sector?" Draco asked with surprised evident in his voice. "That's over three hundred people!"_

_Lucius gave him an affirmative nod. "Yes, and an equal number more right here. They are tired of being ruled, Draco." He gave a weary sigh. "_I _am tired of being ruled."_

_The scene sunk back into the mist as soon as it had come, but Harry did not have time to mull it over as a new one sprang up, a darker one. Draco was walking through a stone hallway. It was cold here. Harry did not know where it was, but the excitement in the air was nearly palpable. Along with the excitement, however, was also a very distinct fear. A fear that if this did not go as planned, all would be ruined._

"_Have you gotten the layout plans?" Draco asked of a man who had just walked around the corner. The man was shrugged. He was tough and callous, not the sort with which Draco normally associated._

_The man nodded. "Yes. Of how much use they will be, though, I do not know."_

_Draco did not seem to be listening very carefully as he opened the thin parchment with a sharp flick of his wrist. Whatever it was seemed to satisfy Draco, but Harry could not see what it was from his angle._

"_You will be accompanying my father, no?" Draco inquired as if he expected to be agreed with. He rolled up the parchment with as much ease as he had opened it._

_Again, the man nodded._

"_Good." An indiscernible look passed over Draco's features for a split second, but it was gone before Harry could blink. "Tonight at seven, Amherst, do not forget that."_

_The man smiled wryly. "As if I could, young Malfoy, as if I could."_

_Again, the smoke swirled but this time Harry could not see anything. He was mystified for all of two seconds until he heard Draco's voice and realised among the screams that it was not that he could not see anything but that he was in complete darkness._

"_No, please, stop, no! Daddy! Don't hurt him, please!"_

_There was a tinkling of laughter from all around him. He tried to move his head, but he could not. He was blind. He felt something warm running down his skin, and oh, gods, did it hurt! It burned! Oh, Merlin, Harry could not move…he wanted to so badly, but he could not. His whole body ached and burned and throbbed with an agony so intense his mind could barely handle it. There was nary a place where he could not feel the fire boiling in his veins. Somehow he knew he had passed out before, but through the cruelty of a man whose angel face kept popping into his mind, he was not allowed such a luxury._

"_Silly boy, thought you could really pull this off, didn't you?" The woman's voice was like a knife, and through the haze of pain Harry thought he could almost recognise it._

_A resounding slap slung through the air, and a resulting cry erupted from his mouth. His eyes cleared for just a moment, and on the ground was his father. No, not mine, Harry thought feverishly, Malfoy's. But by now, his own identity was nearly lost to him._

"_Fucking maggot. You're lucky the Dark Lord doesn't want you dead, or trust me…" The sneer in her voice was so obvious that Harry did not even need to see her face. The threat that hung in the air was a very real one._

_Hatred seeped from his core as he hissed, "No. I'm not lucky if your lord wishes me alive."_

The sound of whimpering woke him. Gasping for breath and rubbing at the tears running out of his eyes, Harry blinked rapidly and sat up, shaking. Already the last vestiges of the dream were slipping from his mind. He tried to grasp at the misty tentacles, but they slipped through his mind like smoke. He recalled what had awoken him, but it was quiet and he thought maybe he had imagined it until he heard it again a few seconds later.

Crying. Someone was crying in the room.

The sound was muffled, but it was there. Harry was tempted to push it off and go back to sleep, compassion or not, but his sympathetic and blatantly curious side got the better of him. He sighed softly and rubbed his forehead, which was curiously throbbing, before grabbing his glasses. Damn his bloody concern.

With a stifled groan, Harry shoved the blankets off of himself and set his feet on the floor, gritting his teeth at the sudden change from warm to cold. When his eyes were adjusted better to the darkness of the room, he could see Malfoy's form huddled under his blankets.

As Harry cautiously walked over, he was stunned to see small tracks of tears down Malfoy's cheeks. Harry frowned, though, when he noticed that Malfoy did not seem to be awake. Nightmares, maybe?

"Malfoy," Harry whispered softly, trying to wake the blond.

When he did not answer, Harry sighed and with a grumbled, "Goddamn it," he grasped Malfoy's shoulder in his hand and shook him lightly.

"Malfoy, wake up," he tried firmly.

Malfoy whimpered again and turned on his stomach but did not wake up. His left arm was folded under his chest, but his right hand managed to fall off the side of the bed. Something warm and liquid hit Harry's arm when Malfoy's wrist bounced slightly, and he looked down in response. It was not clear, as he had expected, but dark. He squinted his eyes and brought his forearm up close to his eyes, but he could not tell the colour in the darkness of the room. He shrugged and wiped it on the hem of his shirt. If it was dangerous, he figured, it would have already hurt him.

He turned to wake Malfoy but found that he had fallen silent. Harry waited for a full two minutes afterward just to make sure he would not have to make a return trip. Finally, after Malfoy had turned his head and Harry saw he no longer had that scrunched up look on his face, Harry stepped back to his bed quietly and fell into the mass of covers. He was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

**End of Chapter Eight.**

* * *

**A/N: **My beta had a concern that in the last part some readers may think that Draco tried to off himself. HE DID NOT. You'll see what happened later. It's nothing that serious, but it's a mildly important spice element. And just think about it, if Draco were to come so far, do you really think he would waste all of his effort just to kill himself now? No, I don't think so. He's a fighter, damnit.


	9. Behaviour of the Wounded

**Title: **System Discordia

**Author: **Eris Mackenzie

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers: **SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

**Main Pairing: **Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings: **Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Summary: **After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the Light? Post-HBP slash

**A/N: **Okay...so hopefully I won't regret posting this in the morning, but I had to go through it now because I know tomorrow I'm going to be sick as hell (I can already feel it coming on), and I won't have the energy nor the time to do much. I had to help my friend all last night in the rain (I was already sick with a really bad cold), and tonight I was outside from about 6 to 10:30 p.m. - again in the wind and rain. Now, keep in mind that it was only about 38 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Ach, my head hurts...pretty sure I'm getting a cough, too, because my chest is aching really oddly. Oh, well, I'll just have to pump myself full of coffee and painkillers because I have things to do tomorrow. Also, danke zu meinem Betaleser, Nathaniel, et merci à Robert de parler au-dessus de mes idées avec moi (hopefully with my brain functioning at about zero right now, that will be right). I would really, really appreciate it if you reviewed - it would make me feel better!

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**Chapter Nine: Behaviour of the Wounded**

_Will you be my friend, my friend of friends, beyond every one, everything, forever and forever? - Henry James_

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As he had been for the whole day, Malfoy was reading silently. That morning they had discovered that the Linking Spell allowed Malfoy to roam anywhere within the room, but as they had not gone outside yet, they could not say how far Malfoy would be able to go out of boundaries.

After the blond had come out of his seclusion in the loo, which he had been in for about two hours after they tested the spell, he had merely passed right by Harry, pulled a book down from the shelf randomly and sat. Harry looked closer at the tome he was holding and noticed that it was actually a seventh year Potions book, judging from the thickness of the volume and the number seven inscripted on the side. Already, Malfoy was in the last sections.

This newfound discovery led Harry to the bookcase, where he noticed that a large portion of them were varied textbooks, both from the sixth year curriculum and, presumably, the seventh. He picked one at random - "Movement Magic and The Consequences Thereof" by Hasselhoff Gordon - and plopped down in the armchair next to Malfoy.

The book, as Harry soon found within the first few sentences, was dry and nearly as cryptic as his old history teacher Professor Binns. He sighed; his eyes had been scanning the same paragraph mindlessly for the past five minutes.

He flipped his hair out of his eyes; despite the fact that he had gotten it shaped and cut for the hearing, it was quickly growing back to its previously wild state. Already his hair brushed the nape of his neck. He took his glasses off to rub his eyes and contemplated about the new frames he had gotten for his makeover, too. Ed had mentioned something about the former round frames being too 'childish' for him. The law wizard had brought up the option of just getting his eyes magically fixed, but Harry had declined. Maybe he was still a little sentimental about the Muggle method since he had grown up with it all his life. Though still black wire, he now had a new prescription lens (which did make a difference since he had not visited an optometrist for ages), and the frames were more square than spherical. It was odd that it was only now that he really thought about the changes.

After a while, Harry allowed his eyes to wander freely and, needless to say, they landed on Malfoy.

As he watched, Malfoy sighed softly and scratched out something. A pot bottle of ink was perched on his knee and wobbled slightly when he moved to turn the page of the Potions' textbook. In one hand, he held a foot long parchment, in the other a quill with its tip nearly flattened from writing. Between Malfoy's teeth was a piece of paper he had just stuck there temporarily. The tip of Malfoy's nose scrunched up, and he made a small grunt of frustration.

Harry tilted his head, his eyes curious. His gaze flowed from Malfoy's aristocratic features to his proud shoulders, down his curved arms to long, tapered hands. He was wearing black robes again today. They did not look that bad on him, Harry permitted himself to think.

As his mind roamed, they touched on spots he had nary purposefully thought about, such as Malfoy's physical looks. Now, Harry was by no means a rainbow-loving, handbag-toting poof, but even he could see Malfoy was not ugly. He was not beautiful in a conventional sense, but then few things about the blond _were_ conventional. What he beheld was a face too delicate for the common man; several features were too frail and pointed to be masculine. His lips, for example, Harry thought as his eyes flickered lingeringly over the spot, were painted a soft, milky coral. The top lip was thin but perfectly shaped, and his bottom lip looked like it would burst and bleed like a ripe melon over his tongue if he bit too hard. Harry shook his head at the morbid picture that gave him.

Malfoy's frame was just as ambigious and lithe as any dancer but closer examination showed that maybe he had not chosen to look that way; his thinness was too overpowering in places to be merely genetics. Malfoy had the underfed look Harry himself had possessed while living with the Dursleys. Most curious and disturbing of all were his eyes that held disconsolation, raging anger, and a desperation that Harry knew all too well.

The comparisons started scaring him, and he forced himself to break his trance. Harry looked away just to swing his attention back over at the barely detectable grimace he caught out of the corner of his eyesight.

Instantly, he was put on guard despite the fact that Malfoy was fine a second later. After a while, he discerned that it was not frustration but rather pain that was causing the expression to surface.

Harry considered asking Malfoy what was wrong but awkwardly shied away from the subject. One of the reasons was the fact that Malfoy obviously did not want or expect Harry to speak to him just yet. Another was that Harry realised how childish he had been in avoiding conversation with Malfoy the day before; after all, the blond had been trying to explain the way he felt. Hence, Harry was forced to acknowledge how childish he was being about being childish the day before. 'Oh, bugger this,' Harry thought.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked when Malfoy winced for the third time and accidentally made a swift slash through the last line he had been writing.

Malfoy jolted at the suddenness of Harry's voice, and the ink bottle he had found in the desk quivered violently on his knee. Thankfully, Malfoy dropped the quill in his hand and grabbed the inkwell before it could fall.

Malfoy looked at Harry suspiciously and shot out, "Why do you want to know?"

Harry was annoyed for a second at Malfoy's typical reaction, then stated in a sardonic tone, "Sorry I even asked."

They went back to the quiet. Silence, Harry thought, how he was starting to hate it. Malfoy reached out to dip his quill in the inkwell when something unnaturally coloured caught his eye.

"What's this?" Harry demanded as he grabbed Malfoy's wrist.

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy replied angrily, a hint of slight panic and annoyance penetrating his tone.

Malfoy tried to yank his arm back, but Harry remained firm. He forced the blond to turn his hand over, and on his palm were four cresent moons cut deep into his otherwise perfect skin. The skin around them was encrusted with dried blood and bruised a dark, blotched purple-blue.

"What is this?" Harry repeated slowly. His tone was low and dangerous; his gaze fixed on the small wounds.

Malfoy's voice trembled just slightly as he said, "Nothing." He again tried to pull his hand back to him, but Harry held on tight. "Let me go."

Harry's grasp tightened.

"Don't lie to me. What happened?" Harry asked forcefully, searching Malfoy's eyes for an explanation.

Malfoy squirmed under the scrutiny. "Nothing, Potter, I…my hand hit the grate in the fireplace is all."

"Bullshit!" Harry nearly shouted. "These are fingernail marks! Why did you hurt yourself, Malfoy?"

"I didn't!" Malfoy blew up. "It's none of your business anyway. Why the bloody hell should you care?"

"Because I'm your watcher, that's why," Harry shot back, "and you hurting yourself _is_ my business."

"Oh, well, excuse me, I'm sorry for inconveniencing you," Malfoy sneered.

"Don't get smart," Harry warned.

"Or what - you'll punish me and stick me in the corner until I can learn to be a good little boy?"

"Hasn't someone already done that?" Harry snapped sarcastically before he could think through what he was about to say.

For a moment, Malfoy eyes widened, and then just like that he slumped back, the fight gone from his very limbs. "Good one, Potter. I'd almost forgotten. Thanks for reminding me," he said tiredly.

"Oh, shit, Malfoy. I'm sorry," Harry rushed to apologise, hoping to rectify the situation.

"Save it, Potter," Malfoy hissed through clenched teeth. A gradual crimson rose flushed throughout Malfoy's cheeks, sending a surge of guilt through Harry.

"No, really, Malfoy, I shouldn't have said that," Harry pushed the point.

Malfoy curled his hands into fists on the armrest of his chair. Harry almost missed the barely detectable tremor in Malfoy's hands - almost. He did not say anything.

"Potter, just go away," Malfoy shook his head.

"No. I really am sorry. I-I know some of what happened that night, and it couldn't have been easy. I mean, if it had been me -"

"But it _wasn't_ you, now was it?" Malfoy interrupted with venom in his voice. His silver eyes spit fire. "It was _me_. I was right about what I said yesterday; we all have our hidden agendas. The second I even think about trusting a person, they have to turn around and slap something like that in my face. Well, congratu-_fucking_-lations, Potter, you've proven my point."

Despite the fact that he knew it was his fault this whole argument had started, Harry could not stop himself from replying. "Malfoy, you know that's not what I meant," he sighed.

"Well then, what did you mean?" Malfoy shot back. "How do you expect me to trust you, hell, how do you expect me to trust _any_ of you when this is how it will always turn out? I will always be reminded of who I am and _exactly_ what I'm not."

"I'm _sorry_, Malfoy," Harry apologised again earnestly. "I didn't mean to imply any of that. Merlin, I was just…I just got mad."

"I wish I could say what I want when I'm angry, but I can't," Malfoy spat bitterly. "But then, you can afford to do that. You're the Golden Wonder Boy."

Harry shot him a faintly disgusted look. "What does that have to do with anything? Just because I'm the bloody _Boy-Who-Lived_ doesn't mean that I can get away with whatever I want."

"Yeah?" Malfoy scoffed. "That's not the way I see it. I see a spoiled, messy-haired boy for whom the world would bend over and kiss its own arse if he so much as hinted. I see someone who makes mistakes time and time again and never, _never _gets punished or beaten or scarred for it! Why should one person deserve that? It's disgusting how they all bow to you like you're some kind of god while the rest of us are left to suffer and die!"

Malfoy was almost screaming. His eyes were wild looking, the colour of half dried, silver paint. He had shot up out of his seat sometime during his rant and was staring down at Harry in blind rage. Harry, uncomfortable with the advantage Malfoy had over him, stood too and replied in kind.

"Okay! Yeah, you're right! It _is_ disgusting how they all bow to me. I'm not a deity, and I'm not a god, but I sure as hell don't have people falling on their knees grovelling and simpering and kissing my mouldy robes like Voldemort!"

Malfoy flinched when he heard Voldemort's name. "What - like me, Potter? Are you trying to give me a hint? That's what the bloody collar was about, showing that I am nothing but a fucking slave to all this. Do you think that I _wanted _to do everything that I did? Maybe that's what you're trying to say, huh, that I'm no good and disgusting. Maybe I'm just a pureblood who's no better than He-Voldemort himself."

Malfoy's voice cracked as he went on, but Harry sensed the anger was no longer being directed at him.

"You think that maybe I deserved it. Maybe I deserved what they did to me. Maybe I _deserved _to be ripped open and ravaged and cursed and fucked with, right?"

Harry's anger took a U-turn as he grabbed Malfoy's upper arms and forced him to look into his eyes. "Shut up. You know I was there. You know I was in the Infirmary when they brought you in."

Malfoy tried to look away. "Yeah, and that's why -"

"I'm not done," Harry said firmly, cutting him off. "You should also know that I helped save you. Would I do that for somebody I thought deserved what happened?"

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth rapidly a few times, still avoiding Harry's gaze, but nothing came out of his mouth.

"Yes, most of what you did was wrong, and I'll admit I can't see how you could do it," Harry said honestly. "I think most of the wizarding world hates you at the moment. It's not going to get any different. All of those families that lost people because of you haven't forgotten. Yeah, it wasn't all your fault, you didn't kill everyone that has died so far, but the people need someone to shovel all of their hate onto. You've just become another scapegoat, Malfoy."

Harry felt a painful twinge as he heard his own words. One scapegoat for the world's problems, another for the pain; it was all the same when it came down to the truth.

Harry saw little crystalline tears collecting at the corners of Malfoy's eyes, but he did not let up on his verbal attack. He hated to do this - to break him - but he had to understand what he was dealing with before he could help. He did not know when his priorities had switched from hating and ignoring Malfoy to helping him heal, but it was one that had happened nonetheless.

"It takes time, Malfoy, for these things to heal and work out," Harry said softly. "There's going to be a whole lot of grovelling left on your part. True, I don't think the collar was a good idea. In fact, if I were you, I'd be pissed off to hell and back. I want to talk to you, but I don't know how to do that when everything I try just gets fired back at me. Yeah, you can say I don't know you, but you don't know me either. You won't even give me a chance. I just…I just want to help you, Malfoy."

"Help me?" Malfoy said furiously, eyes glazed yet blazing. "_Help me_? How the hell are you supposed to do that? I'm just another bloody charity case to the Golden Boy, aren't I?"

"Have you listened to anything else I just said?" Harry asked exasperatedly.

"I don't care about what else you said!" Malfoy spat. "I just want you to shut up and leave me alone! I'm fine, Potter, alright? I. Am. Fine."

"Malfoy, come on," Harry sighed. "Even I can see -"

"I'm not going to break down and cry on your shoulder while I tell you all the nasty things they did to me, Potter," said Malfoy fiercely even while the twin tears that had been building up in his eyes finally rolled, first one, then the other, down his cheeks. "I won't!"

"I know that, Malfoy," Harry whispered vehemently. "I just want to help you."

"You can't!" Malfoy nearly screamed, which, being in such close quarters, caused Harry to wince. Malfoy pushed against Harry's chest angrily to get him to let go, but Harry just tightened his grip. He held his arms so that Malfoy flinched and tried to pull away with a muffled whimper.

Harry forced Malfoy to back up, all the while clenching his upper arms with a grasp strong enough to leave bruises, until Malfoy's back hit the wall with a muffled thud. Malfoy let out a frightened yelp, his eyes suddenly big and wide, and struggled to get Harry to let him go.

Harry pinned Malfoy to the wall with his hips as he restrained the blond's wrists above his head to keep him from hooking Harry in the chin. He grunted when Malfoy aimed to knee him in the groin but missed at the last second and merely hit his thigh.

"Stop it!" Malfoy shouted; Harry missed the distressed undertone to the blond's voice.

"Hold still, Malfoy!" Harry grunted as he used all of his might to keep his hold on Malfoy's wrists. Malfoy managed to wrench his wrist from Harry's grasp; his elbow fell quick and angled and jabbed Harry in the cheek awkwardly, causing the brunet to stumble back.

"Stop!"

Malfoy broke free of Harry's grip momentarily and made it about two steps away from Harry before he lunged and caught Malfoy around the waist. He turned and flung Malfoy against the wall; something clear and wet hit his hand.

"Malfoy, just listen to me!" Harry shouted.

"Please, _stop it_!"

The sound of Malfoy's frantic and desperate begging finally forced what Harry was doing - or what Malfoy thought he was doing - to hit home. Harry froze and stared down at Malfoy's tear-streaked face. The blond was shaking and nearly openly sobbing against him. His pathetic attempts to stifle his sniffles did nothing to hide the fact that he was scared - scared of Harry. Oh, gods, Harry thought, he had not meant to go that far. He had just wanted to break Malfoy enough to get him to open up, that was all. A billowing blossom of guilt started to bloom in his stomach at the sight of Malfoy's tears and his trembling body.

"Oh, no, Malfoy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Harry said as he stared down into Malfoy's wide and watery grey eyes. The fear plainly on display there was enough to make Harry want to kick himself. Hard and repeatedly.

He released Malfoy and bit his lip as he watched the blond instantly bolt to the loo and slam the door. Although there had not originally been a lock, the room must have seen fit to install one in the last two seconds as Malfoy turned it as soon as he shut the door. Harry wanted desperately to go to the door and make Malfoy understand that he was not trying to do what Malfoy had obviously thought, but he forced himself to stay put in the knowledge that seeing Harry was probably not something the blond needed right now.

Harry groaned in frustration and kicked the leg of the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be the armchair Malfoy had originally been sitting in. He cursed his stupidity when he stubbed his toe on the cherry wood leg.

He hopped around on one foot until he collapsed on his bed. He stuffed his face into his hands and groaned at the disaster the day had turned out to be. Why the hell had he not listened when Malfoy first told him to stop? Should he not have seen the signs?

"Goddamn it!" he yelled and then winced when he realised Malfoy could probably hear him through the walls. That is, unless the room had seen fit to add something to them, too.

He sat there for a long time - at least three hours - just staring at the door, hoping Malfoy would eventually come out, but finally he was forced to admit defeat. He got up with a muffled groan and quickly grabbed his cloak. He could not do anything here to help right now. He could not leave either, he remembered suddenly as he stared at the cloak in his hands.

"Oh, fuck it," he groaned and flung himself face down on his bed.

---------

The room was pitch black, and it took a minute for Harry's eyes to adjust to the darkness. The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. Then he noticed the lavatory door was still closed. He sat up slowly, blinking rapidly to get the sleep out of his eyes.

Harry took a deep breath and sighed, rubbing little circles on the back of his neck. He had fallen asleep by accident while waiting for Malfoy to come back out of the loo. Well, he thought as he glanced over to Malfoy's bed and found it empty, it looked like he was still in there.

Checking the time, he found it was nearly 11:45 post meridian.

His mind briefly toyed with the idea of going over to the door and trying to get Malfoy out, but he grudgingly decided to head over to his bureau and get dressed in his night clothes. Harry figured if Malfoy still had not come out, then any effort on his part would be pointless.

It seemed to take more time and care than necessary to get undressed and redressed. Harry pulled on his shirt while unconsciously straining his ears to listen for any sign of life from Malfoy. When he caught himself actually holding his breath in order to hear, he scoffed at himself and shook his head as he walked over to his waiting bed.

After closing his curtains, Harry laid back on his pillow and resumed his contemplation of the events from the past few days. It reminded him too much of his obsession the year before, his constant yearning to catch Malfoy dealing in the Dark Arts so he could finally get him expelled and sentenced for what Harry was sure he was - a Death Eater. Just like how everyone had told him numerous times before to just forget about Malfoy and no matter what he did now, Harry could not disregard his thoughts.

It was actually bloody annoying when everything got down to it: this constant worrying, these persistent and insatiable thoughts about him. Yet, Harry supposed that should anyone else have taken on the responsibility he would have caused utter hell about it.

Harry had had more than enough time to think over what had happened before he had taken his little nap. He had played Malfoy's words over and over in his mind for hours as he sat staring mindlessly at the patterns on the ceiling. The biggest problem was that he could not make heads or tails out of how he should feel about this boy he should hate and he had thought he hated, and how Malfoy was no longer that same spiteful brat.

To Harry, Malfoy was an enigma. He was like a puzzle where the pieces did not fit and even if Harry thought they did, Malfoy would somehow find a way to turn around and make everything suddenly disperse into a jumble of crooked edges and confusing shapes. Malfoy was no longer the stereotypical school bully, no longer the hardened killer, but what he was made him a complete mystery to Harry - an infuriating, mesmeric, perplexing mystery.

Harry knew he should hate Malfoy, despise him for what he had done, killing so many people, but he could not. Even Malfoy's participation in Dumbledore's death, though Harry had not forgiven him that and did not think he ever really would, had somehow grown less key than it had been. He knew all too well himself that it was almost impossible to keep yourself, even harder when your family was on the line. That was another point that Harry could not argue against; Malfoy had killed, not to protect himself, but to save his mother and father. There had been no selfish motive in that. And what else had Voldemort forced him to do other than kill? What else had he inflicted on the seventeen year old?

Harry rolled over onto his side and stared into the inky darkness that made up his curtain. 'This is ridiculous,' he thought. No small throbbing started up behind his eyes, and again he forced himself to slow his thoughts. No sound permeated his mind as he took two, three, four deep breaths to clear his head. He was still drowsy and tired, but -

Harry sat up as he heard a small squeak.

His breath sped up instantly, but he did not move from his spot. Harry heard soft, hesitant steps on the floorboards creaking as they got closer. He knew it was Malfoy - who else would it be? - but instead of heading towards his own bed, he walked closer to Harry's.

Malfoy's steps halted just in front of the closed curtains. A few moments later, he spoke.

"Potter, I know you're awake," Malfoy said quietly beyond the curtain. Harry's eyebrows furrowed as he heard the raspy, tired tone of his voice. "I can hear your breathing, and the pattern is off."

Despite his trepidation of speaking with Malfoy directly, Harry felt the sudden urge to scoff. It was just like Malfoy to detect he was awake with something as minute as his breathing.

Harry did not even bother answering him verbally and merely opened the curtain instead. His adjusted eyes instantly sought out the pale boy, locking on the smooth, white face. Malfoy was nearly glowing in the darkness, and he looked, quite frankly, like shit. It was obvious he had not been taking a spa break in the bathroom.

"What do you want?" Harry asked.

Malfoy cocked his head as if think and bit his lip before he said, "I want to call a truce."

"A truce?" Harry repeated in surprise. He raised his eyebrows, though he doubted Malfoy could really make it out.

"Yes, a truce, Potter."

Malfoy rubbed the palms of his hands on his robes. Even in the dark, Harry could tell he was uncomfortable.

"Look, I…appreciate the fact that you are trying to help me, but you have to understand that I am not who you think I am. What I did - leading the Rebellion - was for my own reasons and mine alone. I didn't do it because it would help out the Light or to score any good points either. I did it to save my family. I haven't suddenly transformed into some goody-goody, and I'm not a hero like you, Potter. I never will be. I'm just doing what I have to in order to survive. And if that means I have to…"

Malfoy made a face that even Harry could see.

"…to bring myself down into the dirt and let the world have a go at me, then I will. _I _carry the Malfoy name now, and I will be damned before I let them think I'm weak. Because I'm not," Malfoy said vehemently, "_I'm not_."

"I know you're not, Malfoy." Harry moved his face closer so that Malfoy could see he was not lying. "I don't expect you to be any of those things; I don't think anyone really does. But if you want me to see that you're not like that, then maybe you should take a look around you and realise that you're not the only one forced to wear a mask."

Harry looked away for a second.

"Sometimes…sometimes it's a hard thing to do."

Harry turned back and watched the moonlight glint off of Malfoy's eyes when he looked down. His Adam's apple bobbed a couple of times when he swallowed, and then finally his gaze turned to Harry. Harry's stomach was still a little knotted - it had been since they had started talking - but now it was not so bad.

"Yeah, sometimes it is."

Malfoy seemed to deflate, and slowly the tension in the room started to ease. Harry thanked the gods that, for once, he had said something right.

Malfoy turned around to head back to his bed. He did not have a chance to get very far before Harry reached out and snaked his hand around the blond's arm.

"Hey, Malfoy, wait," Harry said as he stumbled out of bed and stood beside him. "I-I just wanted to say that I'm, um, sorry about this afternoon. I didn't mean to hurt you or anything. I was just -"

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted softly. "It's alright. I…I overreacted. No big deal."

He tugged his arm away and resumed his pace to his bed, but Harry quickly stopped him again.

"No, really, Malfoy, if we're going to become friends or…or whatever this is," Harry gestured vaguely between them; "then I want you to tell me if I do something that isn't okay with you. I'll try my best to keep everything comfortable, but you have to remember I don't know everything that happened, so…."

Harry trailed off and looked at Malfoy for confirmation. He did not know what else to say and did not want to embarrass either himself or Malfoy if he continued talking.

"No apologies, Potter, and I'll be fine," Malfoy assented finally. There was a tired curve to Malfoy's mouth that looked to Harry like the tiny beginnings of a smile.

For some reason, this made Harry want to grin, but he held it back. "No apologies," he promised.

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but Harry remembered something and quickly interrupted him.

"Hey, let me heal these really quickly, okay?" he offered as he gently grasped Malfoy's hand in his own and turning it up to the moonlight.

Malfoy gazed at him, his eyes shrouded and burning in their questioning. For a second, Harry thought he would refuse, but then he blinked and the look was gone.

"Alright," Malfoy said carefully. "They…they're on both hands."

In slight surprise, Harry turned the other palm up and saw that, indeed, Malfoy was correct. He wanted so badly to demand not _where_ they were from (it was obvious Malfoy had pushed his fingernails down so hard he had broken the skin), but _why _he had them. Harry bit his lip though; he had already caused enough trouble for one day.

He was in the middle of mending the cuts when Malfoy spoke up.

"I was dreaming," Malfoy said softly. Harry was startled from his work and looked up quickly in surprise. "I sometimes clench my hands when I sleep. I…my dreams…they…"

Malfoy's face scrunched up as he tried to think of the proper words when Harry finished softly, "Your dreams hurt so bad that you can't help it."

For a moment, Malfoy was the one who was stunned, and his mouth bobbed open and closed like a guppy. Finally, he swallowed and nodded, "Yes, exactly."

Harry finished up the healing with a few more simple spells, first year really, and regrettably let Malfoy's hands fall back to his sides. He stood there for a while biting his lip until Malfoy finally said, "Thank you." He gave Harry a small smirk, from which Harry felt an unexplainable relief flood his system. "Now go to bed, Potter."

Harry blushed a little and rubbed the back of his neck as he nodded and turned around to do as Malfoy suggested.

"So, uh, I'll see you in the morning, huh?"

"Where else would I be?" Malfoy stated dryly as he turned down his sheets and started tugging off his clothes. Harry watched for a second before realising what he was doing and quickly turning away.

The next few minutes were full of bed clothes rustling, and then all was quiet.

**End of Chapter Nine.**

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**A/N: **So, please review now? begs


	10. Paparazzi Pose

**Title**: System Discordia  
**Author**: Eris Mackenzie  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.  
**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.  
**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.  
**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work. _Une Saison En Enfer _was created by Arthur Rimbaud and has no financial connection with the author of this work.  
**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

**A/N: **Wow, it's been a long time, non? I'm very sorry but I never had the time. I recently went through a rather difficult time with my family. I won't get into details, but let's just say that I nearly was sent to the hospital - to see both a medical doctor and a shrink. So, oui, very sorry if this chapter doesn't meet the expectations, but I'd appreciate some kind words either way.

Also, a little note about the magical cleaning - yes, Draco can do wandless magic, but because in my version of the wizarding world this is extremely difficult and can only be done by a few people, Draco doesn't exactly want everyone knowing these things about him just in case he'll need a few tricks up his sleeve for later. He's crafty like that.

**Ooh, and a little challenge for my readers**: can you pin point what I'm talking about when I describe a "spicy, woody scent"? It has come up before. I'll give you a hint - it has a connection with possible flowers that may or may not have been grown at the Burrow.  
-----------------

**Chapter Ten: Paparazzi Pose **

_I used to be a little boy  
So old in my shoes  
And what I choose is my choice  
What's a boy supposed to do  
The killer in me is the killer in you_

_-"Disarm" Smashing Pumpkins_

----------------

Harry learned a great many things over the next few days.

Despite Harry's previous beliefs, Malfoy did not actually mean to smirk all that time; it was just that one side of his mouth tended to come up farther than the other. He had a strong affinity for sweets, particularly chocolate covered strawberries. Later, Harry found out that Malfoy had also taken violin, piano, and sparring classes since he was eight and could brew potions well above N.E.W.T. level.

Harry learned small things, like Malfoy never took his tea during the day but always late in the evening with a wedge of lemon, two cubes of sugar, no milk. He had a set morning ritual, preferring to shower as soon as he awok to take care of any grooming and then grabbing one of the many books in the room and reading over a light breakfast. Curiously, when the moist air from the shower would start to dissipate throughout the room, that same spicy, woody scent Harry remembered smelling before but could never place would curl into his nostrils, igniting a feeling that was familiar and strangely comforting.

Harry looked up from the letter he was penning to Gringotts and glanced towards Malfoy, who was lying prostrate just feet away on his pristinely made bed. As he watched, the blond flicked another page over with the tip of his index finger, his tongue lashing out to wet his bottom lip for mere seconds as he read. Harry caught the title of the leather-bound book engraved on the spine but could not comprehend it. It was most likely in French, for Harry had also found out on another such occasion that Malfoy had grown up perfectly bilingual, having lived for a time in Nantes.

It felt strange to Harry how well he and Malfoy actually got along now that they had called a truce. True, it had only began four days before, but the time seemed to stretch indefinitely, and it did not feel so short. He sometimes caught himself smiling for no reason at all, either after Malfoy and he had just finished talking or while he was on the verge of sleep.

This was not to say that everything between Malfoy and himself was perfect; there were still as many barriers and walls to climb and bulldoze over as there were leagues in the sea. Though most of the time they got along, there were moments when Malfoy would pull away and refuse to talk or would start an argument on an all-too-familiar playing field.

Harry might not have understood much about his own reactions to this newfound peace, but he knew that something about it was good if it made him forget about his world of problems, even if only for a moment. He supposed maybe Malfoy felt the same because as he shot a small, almost shy smile at the blond, Malfoy nodded. Harry thought he saw the edges of his lips curl, nearly hidden, when he looked back down.

Harry realised some time later that he was staring at Malfoy but could not help it. A small, ornate bowl sat by Malfoy's hip filled to the brim with fruit. Malfoy's adept fingers sought out a large, vivid red strawberry and popped it into his mouth without looking.

For some reason, as Malfoy's lips closed around the seeded fruit and lapped up a trickle of juice, Harry began to feel uncharacteristically warm. Suddenly disoriented and slightly confused at his reaction, Harry looked back to his letter.

"What are you writing?" Harry heard Malfoy casually ask. Surprised that Malfoy had initiated conversation, Harry saw that he had not moved the book away.

Harry shrugged a little and tilted his head back down. "A letter to Gringotts. I need to switch around my funds, take some out, that sort of thing."

"Oh?"

Harry glanced up. Malfoy's voice had feigned polite, cool curiosity, but Harry heard the unknowingly different, stressed undertones.

"Yeah," he said carefully, watching Malfoy's impassive face. He opened his mouth to further the conversation when a faint crackling noise interrupted his thoughts.

Harry regrettably let the subject drop for now but promised himself he would take it up later.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Harry greeted warmly as he picked up the speaking stone from the dresser. "You're on your way, then?"

"Greetings, Mister Potter," McGonagall's voice crackled through faintly. "And yes, Edora and I are nearly ready to leave. I assume all is well on your end?"

"Of course."

"Good," she replied briskly. "I was informed earlier today that the Order has finally finished relocating, and I have made arrangements for both you and Mister Malfoy to be transported there at nine o'clock. First we will be flooing to Hogsmeade, and from there we will Apparate."

"Surely we're not moving in today?" Harry's right eyebrow rose, though he knew McGonagall could not see it. At Harry question, Malfoy looked up from what he was reading with an inquisitive expression. "We would have to get ready and…"

"Oh, no, Mister Potter, but we should still get started as early as possible on making the house suitable for domestic living. There were several rooms that were neglected for use by the Order that need airing out and cleaning, and I figured today was as good as any to begin," McGonagall explained. "Is this alright with you, Mister Potter?"

Harry looked enquiringly over at Malfoy, but he had once again become preoccupied with his book.

"Yes," Harry decided. "When are we going to leave?"

"We should be arriving within ten minutes. There's just a few more short arrangements that must be taken care of first. Be ready by then."

Harry found himself nodding and replied, "Alright. We'll be waiting."

He could picture McGonagall's greyed head bobbing as she said, "Until then, Mister Potter."

The crackling noise stopped.

When Harry set the stone down and turned back around, Malfoy was staring at him almost uncomfortably.

"What?" Harry questioned automatically.

"Oh, uh…" Malfoy looked surprised to find himself looking at Harry and shook his head. "Nothing."

Though he thought it slightly strange, Harry nevertheless shrugged and flopped down in the armchair closest to Malfoy. Searching for a safe subject to speak about, he looked around futilely before settling on the book in Malfoy's hands.

"Er…what is it that you're reading?"

"_Une Saison en Enfer _by Arthur Rimbaud," Malfoy replied, his voice breezing easily between languages. At Harry's oblivious look, he explained, "It means _A Season in Hell _in English."

"Ah," came Harry's still befuddled voice.

Malfoy fluttered his blond eyelashes and looked up. "Have you never heard of it?"

Harry shook his head. "I only understand English, remember?"

Malfoy smiled enigmatically and lowered his eyelids back to the page. "Well, when you learn French, read it."

Harry's face grew confused, and he shook his head. Before he could say anything else, however, Malfoy again spoke.

"What was it that the headmistress spoke to you about?"

"Um, she wanted to talk to us about the moving arrangements," Harry said.

Malfoy nodded absentmindedly. "When is she coming up then?"

"In about, oh, five minutes now. She said she's bringing Ed with her."

In an instant, Malfoy's relaxed demeanour changed. A wary look flickered over his features. "Did she mention why?" he questioned neutrally.

Harry shook his head and picked up his quill. Dipping the tip into the ink bottle, he replied, "She just said that it didn't have anything to do with...well, _this_. I guess it's more of a safety precaution."

"Against what?"

Harry was about to answer when there was suddenly a knock on the door. Setting his quill back down, Harry sighed.

"I gotta go get that."

He stood and crossed the room swiftly, throwing open the door to reveal the headmistress and Ed. The law wizard smiled warmly as if an old friend and stepped into the room.

"Hello again, Mister Potter," Ed greeted, reaching out a manila-coloured glove toward Harry. He took it, gingerly wincing at her strong grip. Today, the law wizard was wearing casual clothes, probably for the manual labour, and her sleek black hair was pulled up in a bun startlingly reminiscent of McGonagall. Ed nodded at Malfoy, who now sat upright on the bed.

Malfoy merely nodded, casting his eyes down. Harry noticed that as soon as they had entered that Malfoy's whole body had tensed up, and he frowned. The re-emergence of the blond's apathetic and detached mask bothered Harry. '_Submissive_,' was the description that suddenly entered his mind.

More and more Harry had been noticing the distinct but subtle differences between Malfoy when he was just with Harry and Malfoy when he was with others. It felt strange, but over the last four days Harry felt like he was finding someone who had been shut away for far too long.

"Okay, so now that we're all here, let us get started. Shall we?" McGonagall gestured to Malfoy, who was still a distance away.

Malfoy cautiously slipped off of his bed and made his way over to the trio. With Harry's lidded gaze guardedly studying his every movement, he walked up to Harry and stood so close beside him that it was almost comical in the way it appeared he was hiding behind the brunet boy. It was odd, Harry realised, that he could practically feel the nervousness radiating off of the blond and yet an askew glance at his face revealed nothing.

It was the headmistress who finally broke the awkward silence.

"Well, boys, as you know, it was one of the requirements of the contract that you find a separate residence outside of Hogwarts for the safety of both yourselves and the students. Mister Malfoy, I am sure Mister Potter has at least mentioned the switch, and you will be informed of the whereabouts of the new dwelling in due time. You will soon see the reason for my censorship in the matter."

"I will, of course, be going along," Ed interjected. "Mind you, it's just to make sure that the media does not pose any problems that cannot be cleared up with a little legal persuasion."

She smiled in such a way that Harry instantly knew what she really meant by 'legal persuasion'.

"Now, I have allowed a temporary Flooport to be connected from your fireplace to my office." The headmistress brought the conversation back to her. "There's something Mister Malfoy needs to see."

Thus was McGonagall's speech. The grey-haired professor turned and gestured for them to follow. Harry was slightly puzzled at her meaning but obediently followed with Malfoy at his side. He, too, seemed perplexed. It was still several moments until Harry realised what she meant. During their last discussion whilst Malfoy had been preoccupied at the other end of the room, McGonagall and Harry had tried to find a roundabout way of solving the problem of transporting Malfoy to number 12 Grimmauld Place. With that came a rather obvious complication that both of them had overlooked; how Malfoy would even be able to find the place.

As sole Secret Keeper of the Order's headquarters a.k.a. number 12 Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore alone had been the only one with the rights and power to speak of the location. Due to the fact that his mentor had passed away, no one else who had not or was not told the location directly from Dumbledore would ever find out where it was. Although rendered ineffective because of the recent move by the Order, the spell would still continue to overlook and protect the mansion - at least until a new one cancelled it out. Needless to say, this had put quite a damper in Harry's plans - after all, how on Earth would Malfoy gain access if Dumbledore was dead? - that is, until a small reminder from his fourth year reared its head.

McGonagall took a pinch of floo powder between her thumb and forefinger and trickled it like sand into the fire. In an instant, it blazed a familiar emerald green.

"Remember, don't take too much," McGonagall warned when Harry reached his hand into the pot hung by the fireplace. "This is the new formula. Throwing in too much will make the strength of the magic exceed the needed amount; a handful would hurtle you out of the fireplace hard enough to break your ankle."

"Oh…" Harry let some powder slide between his fingers and grinned sheepishly. "I forgot. The new formula, huh?"

McGonagall nodded sagely. "Yes, you would think that the Ministry would have better things to do than concoct a new Floo Powder for quicker travelling."

Harry smiled. "You would think."

Soon McGonagall was gone, and after throwing in his fraction Harry moved to step past the grate when Ed's hand caught his sleeve.

"What?" he asked quickly as he jerked out of the fire's tendrils.

Ed looked pointedly over at Malfoy, who was standing to the right of the fireplace. Harry shook his head, still confused, and Ed said, "You have to go together. You can't separate, remember? This would count as a place requiring an escort."

"Oh," Harry said, realisation dawning in his eyes. "Right. Sorry, I forgot."

Ed smiled. "Just don't forget again," she said half-jokingly.

"Well, er, come on then, Malfoy." Harry stepped up to the hearth, the fire inside still twinkling a vibrant verdant. It was awkward for two children let alone two adult wizards to fit comfortably; Harry was forced to press up close to Malfoy and circle his arms around him. Malfoy's chest heaved against his own and Harry could feel the moist cloud of the blond's breath against his cheek, so close were they.

"Okay, then…" he murmured into Malfoy's fluttering hair. "Headmistress' office!"

In an instant, they were off, hurtling through a network of tunnels and secret fireplaces. At one point in the few seconds they were zipping through, Harry could have sworn they almost hit a startled house elf hanging up some spare shirts to dry. Then, just as soon as they had started, the roller-coaster ride was over.

Harry stumbled as they landed and would have fallen had Malfoy not quickly wrapped his arms around Harry to keep him grounded.

"Merlin, Potter," Malfoy said with a tilt of amusement to his voice. "You still can't stick a landing, can you?"

Harry snorted and tucked his head down to ask just when Malfoy had seen him flooing before when he suddenly found his tongue stuck in his throat. With his gaze firmly fixed on Malfoy's eyes, the smiles died off of both of their lips. They were so close that Harry could see practically count out Malfoy's pale eyelashes one-by-one. He had never realised how big his eyes were before then, Harry thought absentmindedly.

"I-I…um -"

"Alright, boys?"

Suddenly remembering their proximity to each other, they simultaneously jumped back. Harry turned his head to look at McGonagall as he forced down a blush. Malfoy stood a few feet abreast of him, a faint pink tingeing his cheeks.

Harry cleared his throat a couple of times before answering. "Er, yeah, we're-we're okay."

Ed walked up behind him, ushering the two young wizards along. "Right then, lads. Follow your headmistress."

Harry did as he was told and looked about the room, noting the subtle changes with a twinge of sadness when he spotted a missing doodad or silver thingamabob, a book or wizard globe shoved in to fill its place. They stopped in front of a cabinet to the right of McGonagall's desk, and Harry could see the curious look hidden under Malfoy's guarded gaze as McGonagall retrieved from her robes an ornate silver key.

She slid it into the lock on the front of the oak cabinet. A pressurised fizzing sound emitted with a hiss of steam from the lock hole after she had turned it. The doors creaked open on squeaky hinges; Harry shook his head bemusedly as a sudden image of a haunted house popped into his mind.

The three watched as the headmistress stepped into the rather small cabinet and bustled around. A dull grinding noise and a splashing sound later, McGonagall could be seen.

"Mister Malfoy," she gestured behind her without turning around, "come here and bring Mister Potter with you, also."

With decidedly skittish eyes but swift and calm movements, Malfoy ascended up the two steps to the desk with Harry in tow.

As Malfoy brushed past him, and out of earshot of the others, Harry leaned in and whispered, "It's alright. Don't be scared."

He squeezed the top of Malfoy's arm and continued on without breaking stride.

Malfoy shot him a first startled, suspicious, then vaguely puzzled look all in one, but he, too, did not halt in walking. As Harry rounded past the cabinet door, the rim of Dumbledore's Pensieve came into view.

"A Pensieve?" Malfoy could not help but question. Even his staunch mask could not hide the curiosity leaking in his voice.

"Yes," McGonagall nodded, seemingly pleased that he had asked. "Albus Dumbledore's Pensieve, in fact. It was willed to Hogwarts. Strange but permitted and rock-solid in its credibility. Highly prized and highly dangerous when in the wrong hands, as I'm sure you can imagine. This contains all of the important events he presided over or was involved in, as well as a few personal memories."

"A wizard memoir," Malfoy said, a look of realisation dawning in his eyes.

"A what?" Though Harry knew what Malfoy meant, he had never heard that expression before.

"Like an autobiography," Malfoy replied almost absentmindedly. "But why would I need to be shown this?"

Now Ed stepped up. She crossed her arms and leaned against the door. "See, there was a problem with allowing you to live in the place designated by Harry. Have you noticed none of us have said the place specifically? I'm sure you had guessed by now that it is protected by the Fidelius charm."

Malfoy nodded as if this were obvious; Harry was not surprised that he had already figured it out.

"This place was protected by Headmaster Dumbledore. However, when he died the secret to the location was lost to anyone who had not already been told. The problem -"

" - was figuring out how I would be able to find it," Malfoy finished with a touch of wonder in his voice. He stepped closer to the Pensieve and ran his finger along the stone engravings. "_Genius_. He saved his memory of the location, did he not?"

Ed smiled proudly at Malfoy's quick deduction. "Yes. I'm sure Mister Potter will remember."

Harry looked over at her in surprise.

"After all, it was Dumbledore's memory of writing out the location to Mister Potter that you are about to see. Now, don't bother trying to poke around anymore than that. Severe restrictions have been placed on the Pensieve strictly preventing such happenings." She smiled dryly. "I'm sure you don't want to come out of there with half a mind, now do you?"

At Malfoy's subdued shake of his head, McGonagall broke in.

"Harry, naturally, will be accompanying you. Just remember - time is of the essence, gentlemen. Every time a memory is viewed, the persons involved in the viewing and the amount of time wherein to do so are limited. Just be sure to get the message across before you are pulled out."

"Right," Ed sighed with finality. "Step up to the plate, if you'd excuse my Muggle referencing."

Harry gave her a small half-smile, and she spread her arms and moved to the side. Malfoy was already in front of the Pensieve, so the only person who needed to move was Harry. He quickly trudged into place beside Malfoy.

Unsurprisingly, Harry again had to invade Malfoy's personal space; Harry could feel the nub of Malfoy's shoulder and much of their sides touched to fit into the space designated by the cabinet.

"Lean in," a voice instructed; Harry did not have time to figure out who had spoken before he was suddenly plummeting headfirst into the silver lake of memories.

Beside him, he saw streaks of white blond hair and black flickering robes as Malfoy fell. His breath hitched when he lost sight of Malfoy for a second. When Malfoy reappeared, Harry instinctively grabbed hold of the blond's thin wrist. Malfoy turned his head towards him, but his face was just a blur.

Suddenly they hit rock-bottom. Harry was jostled back, and he fell on his derriere rather hard. He hissed when he stood and began rubbing the offended area.

"Ouch!"

"Are you alright?" Harry turned in the direction of Malfoy's exclamation and ignored his newfound surroundings for a moment as he made sure Malfoy was uninjured. "Did you get hurt when we stopped?"

"No, I'm fine," Malfoy shook his head. He grimaced and tugged his arm. "My…my wrist, Potter."

Having forgotten he was still holding on, Harry quickly dropped Malfoy's wrist. As Malfoy rubbed his wrist and fixed his sleeve, Harry saw five red finger marks along Malfoy's pale skin. Harry had not realised he had squeezed so hard.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," Harry instantly apologised. "Are you-it's not going to bruise or anything, is it?"

Malfoy shook his head slowly. "No...I'm okay…" Malfoy murmured almost as an afterthought. His attention had already been wrenched to the room around them. Harry noted how his silver eyes seemed to skimp over the every bump, scurried and worried at the corners and doorways.

As he watched Malfoy surveying their surroundings, Harry also took up the idea and looked around. The drafty, old

room was an apparent study filled to the brim with a clustered array of leather-bound books, sealed manuscripts, and ancient parchments yellowed with age. Several lumpy, red velvet chairs stood at random intervals throughout the room, either half submerged in papers and other assorted trinkets or shrouded with a strange, shimmering black cloth. Though there were canvases hung upon the walls, they were curiously blank. Only one held any image, and that was a landscape of rolling, green hills. Peering closer, Harry saw a lone sheep languidly strolling along the border. Light slanted through the arched windows high above the floor and hit Harry straight in the eyes, forcing him to squint as he blocked it with his hand.

Malfoy turned full-circle before he stopped and faced Harry. "Where are we?" he said.

"I'm not sure," Harry said slowly. "Where we're supposed to be, I guess. Just wait."

Instead of remaining still, Malfoy tumbled across stacks of books and trailed his fingertips gently over the musky, red-petalled wallpaper as Harry was left standing in the middle of the room. Towering, ornately carved bookshelves seemed crammed into any place with enough space. Malfoy found a small strip of wall decorated with a window and looked out. Directly behind them across the room was a single door whose brown paint had long since faded to dusty beige.

"It's strange," Malfoy murmured aloud, "but it seems like I've been here before…"

Harry was intrigued by the dreamlike tilt to Malfoy's voice but did not get a chance to comment on it when he suddenly felt a presence about to join them.

"Malfoy," Harry hissed as he heard the doorknob start to turn. "Come here."

Malfoy hesitated but then swiftly crossed back to Harry's side. The door opened to reveal Dumbledore, his purple-hatted head bent over a tightly tied bundle of parchment. A clustered horde of bitten quills, half-empty ink bottles, a chipped tea cup and curiously a piping pot of tea followed behind him. He was mumbling to himself, though only an odd word or two was able to be discerned.

Harry could not help stiffening as his departed headmaster glided past. Here, the old wizard was perpetually frozen in time but still there seemed to be more wrinkles around his eyes than Harry remembered. Or, maybe it was just the light. He swept past unseeingly. The edges of his robe trickled like water past Harry's fingers. Harry felt that all too familiar sting behind his eyes, a small pounding disgrace start in the back of his brain. _Your fault. Your fault. _His vision had just started to sting with tears when he felt Malfoy's gaze roam inquisitively over him. He shook his head briefly. '_Stop it.' _

In an instant of deprived force, his feeling promptly dried up.

Dumbledore sat at the desk amid all the disorder and rummaged around in one of his desk drawers. Harry nudged his head in the direction of the headmaster and started making his way toward him. He caught sight of a small piece of parchment in front of the old wizard and knew that he was about to write out the location.

"Malfoy…" Harry's voice sounded too loud in the silence.

Malfoy looked over at him, and Harry pointed.

"That's the paper. Make sure you read it."

Malfoy nodded once and peered over Dumbledore's shoulder as he moved behind him to get a better view.

Dumbledore held out his hand, and one of the quills that had arrived with him zipped into his grasp.

'_The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at…number twelve…Grimmauld Place…London.' _

"Number twelve…" Draco murmured, and in that second Harry felt the pull signalling their time was nearly up.

"Memorise it," Harry said hurriedly before, abruptly, they were ripped from the memory in a flash.

With a small gasp, Harry and Malfoy were both thrown back onto the stone flooring. McGonagall and Ed's faces swam into view above him. McGonagall lent aid to Harry, reaching down to help him stand. Gratefully, Harry grabbed her hand and hauled himself up just as Malfoy was doing the same.

"You've seen it, then?" McGonagall commented. Her voice indicated that she expected to be agreed with.

"Yes," Malfoy nodded.

"Good," McGonagall said, "then we need to be leaving. We've already taken up more time than I expected."

"Flooing, right?" Harry inquired.

"Yes, to Hogsmeade. From there we shall Apparate," McGonagall verified one final time.

She stepped up to the hearth, dipped her hand in.

"Everyone ready?"

Harry nodded, and soon they were all off.

This time, when they landed in Hogsmeade, Malfoy did not have to hold him up, but all the same Harry noted with a small mental smile that he still instinctively closed his arms about Harry's waist.

The place they had come to was a small, one-room hut. There were dirt floors, cruddy wooden walls, and the only furniture there was that of one pathetically leaning chair. Malfoy made an expression of slight distaste when McGonagall stepped out of the grate and Harry swung him around to make room.

As they walked through the beaten door, Harry recognised, with a sinking feeling, the host of shouting and scrambling steps bombarding his ears. He turned to see a large crowd of reporters bee-lining their way through the many people packed already in the small alley outside of the tiny hut they had just exited.

As the swarming throng spotted them, there was a lone call of, "There they are!"

"Oh, no," Harry said under his breath. Beside him, Malfoy tensed. Ignoring the startled, near glare Malfoy gave him, Harry slung an arm around blond's waist; he would need the physical contact to stay together when slugging through the crowd.

" - Mister Potter," they immediately started, "can you tell us why you chose to take in Mister Malfoy -"

" - There have been rumours that Mister Malfoy was a spy for the Light side -"

"Go away!" he hissed when one of the photographers got a little too close for Harry's liking. Harry glared at the offending reporter until he backed off. Beside him, Malfoy was clinging to his side hard enough to bruise.

Taking one look at Malfoy's face, Harry knew they needed to get out of there, and soon.

"Ed! Professor McGonagall!" Harry called blindly. "I need some help!"

The two witches, who had been separated at one point by the crowd, turned in Harry's direction and quickly circled in on the two young wizards. McGonagall grasped Malfoy's elbow and herded him and Harry through the crowd.

" - some speculation on your relationship with Mister Malfoy -"

" -the people want to know, is it true that Mister Malfoy was a traitor Death Eater -"

Harry heard a small whimper escape the petrified Malfoy when a myriad of flashes suddenly exploded in his face. Malfoy's whole body started to shake with the rapidity of his inhalations as he started to hyperventilate.

"Too many people, too many people…" Harry knew that Malfoy was not ready for such a large impediment of people, especially those whose accusations and interfering questions slit through the air like singeing curses.

As another round of cameras showed their lenses, Harry rounded around Malfoy and shielded him with his own body. He thanked the stars when McGonagall and Ed abruptly shoved them into a literal hole in the wall.

"Apparate! Now!" McGonagall hissed.

Harry nodded, intending to follow his former headmistress' instructions. "Hold on to me," he instructed firmly to Malfoy.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the small grove of trees across from Grimmauld Place, but it was too hazy for him to execute it safely. He rapidly surged through the other available spots he remembered close enough to their destination.

"Hurry, please…" Harry heard Malfoy say softly past the ongoing commotion in the background. The pleading, desperate undertone of Malfoy's voice spurned Harry on.

In that instant, his mind locked on the sidewalk in front of the mansion. The only left of them next was the sharp crack of their departure.

----------

"The walkway, Mister Potter?"

Harry's eyes opened to McGonagall's shrill voice.

"The _walkway_? Are you aware of how dangerous that would have been had a non-magical person or _persons_ seen you?"

"I know," Harry argued even as he took in the familiar sights around him. Alongside him, Malfoy's eyes were narrowed as he did the same. "But there wasn't anywhere else I could Apparate to without splinching one of us."

"All the same, Mister Potter -"

"…Perhaps we should move along." Malfoy's soft, grave voice broke through any strings of dispute. Having forgotten Malfoy had a voice to speak of, three heads swivelled toward him.

"What?" Harry said.

Malfoy's eyes flickered about; something about his stonewall expression killed any argument. "We should get inside. Now."

Harry peered at him confusedly, not understanding the reason for his sudden reaction. "Wha -?"

"He's right, Mister Potter," McGonagall said. Harry noticed she, too, was looking around them suspiciously. Ed gently ushered them toward the mansion.

Harry did not say anything else as he quickly made his way over to the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The black paint was peeling just as he remembered it. As he pushed open the door and felt the boundary spells wash over both him and Malfoy, some flecks of ambiguous colour shifted under his fingertips.

Inside, it was dim and hard to see. Harry squinted as he stepped into the large, vaulted foyer. Behind them, as the door closed on the shaft of light, Harry heard Ed give a sneeze.

"Ah, it's dusty in here," she mumbled. Harry saw her reach to her right and pick one of the dead flowers resting delicately in a vase by the door. Not a moment later, it was a pink polka-dotted handkerchief.

As Harry walked, he was caught by the reflection of the four of them in one of the many mirrors in the entrance hall. As he impulsively sought out Malfoy's reflection, his arm tightened around said young wizard.

"Alright, Headmistress, where did you want to start?" Harry asked as McGonagall stepped up beside them.

She paused in her steps and appeared to be thinking.

"Hhm…" she said after a second. "Most of the entrance hall and several of the rooms near the front exit will, as expected, be quite dirty. The Order thought that it would be a good safety precaution to use the inner and back rooms rather than those on the frontal parts of the house, just in case there were ever to be a raid, so the rooms on the upper floors except for the last should be usable. So…I suppose that we should begin with where we are right now."

Harry nodded. "All right, Malfoy?"

"Okay."

"So we're set."

As Harry pulled his wand from his back pocket, he realised that Malfoy could not assist them magically.

"Well, Malfoy, because you don't have a wand, I guess you can…er…"

"Here."

Ed came up from behind them and placed something in Malfoy's hand. As Malfoy looked down at it in a bit of confusion, Harry realised it was a dusting rag and cleaning solution.

"Let's do this the Muggle way, eh?" she suggested with a wink. "I've been meaning to try it for a while."

It was clear that Malfoy was still perplexed at to how to use the bottle, but he nodded anyway.

"Thank you," Harry heard him say so softly that it might as well have been a whisper. Again, Harry was shown this facet of Malfoy that was so unfamiliar.

Harry hid a small smile as he turned back toward McGonagall and sighed.

"So…let's get this hall back from the Middle Ages, shall we?"

--------

"Ah, by all that yields magic!" Harry panted as he wiped his brow. "This table weighs a bloody ton!"

"Well, you can't expect a fragile witch like myself to be able to move it, now can you?" Ed said with a stereotypical feminine wisp to her voice.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I still don't - argh! -" The table leg nearly fell on his foot, but he quickly side-stepped. "- see why we can't just levitate this thing."

"We don't want to disturb Mrs. Black's portrait, remember?" Ed smirked.

Harry huffed, but he did not have a rebuttal to that. The last time Harry had tried to interact with that damned painting, he had been called a number of names that he did not care to repeat.

The table moved another few inches.

Harry stopped for a rest and leaned against the solid oak table to catch his breath. A few metres down the corridor, Malfoy was busily dusting off a pair of antique plates while McGonagall was aiming cleansing foam at the walls. As Harry watched, the purple foam fizzed and disappeared in seconds, leaving the grimy wallpaper as spotless as the day it had been put up. Harry had to admit: McGonagall knew some heavy duty spells. He wondered where she had learned them, but quickly dismissed the thought. There was a whole arsenal of spells that he did not and probably would not ever know.

"Anyway, Harry, we're nearly done here, so I figure after you finish moving the table back we can start upstairs, or maybe in the pantry. I heard there were a few pixies hiding under the last shelf…"

" …Well, Mister Malfoy..."

At the sound of McGonagall's voice down the way, Harry tuned into the conversation between his charge and the headmistress. He turned his head to the side as he pretended to be listening to Ed but was actually eavesdropping on Malfoy.

"…and there seems to be an odd knocking noises every once in a while, but this is an old house…other than that the plumbing appears to be fine…you think so?"

"Mmm," Harry mumbled. Ed rolled her eyes.

"…Mister Potter, are you even listening?"

"Mmm, not really," Harry hummed truthfully as he stood up. His eyes never left Malfoy. "I'll be right back."

Ed opened her mouth to protest, but at the last minute simply smiled knowingly to herself as she watched Harry march down the corridor.

"But I don't understand, why shouldn't I spray it with this? Isn't it for wiping surfaces?" Malfoy was holding the glass cleaner in his hand.

As McGonagall shook her head, Harry leaned over Malfoy's shoulder and said, "That's for windows and mirrors, stuff like that. For wood, you need…" he flicked his wand and a bottle of polish appeared in his hand. "…this." He handed the bottle to Malfoy, who took it without word.

"I…oh…" Malfoy's cheeks burned a bright crimson in embarrassment.

"Yeah," Harry airily interrupted Malfoy's thoughts before they could become detrimental, "growing up basically taking care of your extended family has some knowledge benefits."

Malfoy glanced at him in question but did not comment. "Thank you," he said for the second time that day.

Harry smiled warmly. "You know, you're pretty good at that."

"At what?"

"Being polite. It's too bad you weren't like that in school. I might have been able to carry a conversation instead of throwing curses at you at every opportune moment."

Malfoy looked down, a small smile touching his lips, as he said, "Yes. I suppose."

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Well, then, I suppose I'll go join Edora with that table."

Harry turned his head to see Ed struggling to push the table toward the wall.

"Whoops," he laughed, still looking at Ed as McGonagall met her. He grinned sheepishly at Ed when she stopped to catch her breath. The law wizard sent him a glare before she lost the seriousness and grinned back.

Instead of helping physically, McGonagall shook her head and simply transported the table to its designated place. The look on Ed's face at her lapse into stupidity was more than worth the exertion that Harry had been forced to put up with earlier.

Harry turned his head back to see Malfoy curiously lifting a moth-eaten, yellowed cloth hanging over one of the portraits.

"Malfoy, no, that's -"

"Why, hello, Mrs. Black," Malfoy greeted.

Harry stopped in his tracks as he heard the portrait answer back - _without_ screaming.

"Who are you?" a cranky, suspicious voice grumbled.

"I'm Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black," Malfoy said politely, inclining his head in a slight bow. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

"A Malfoy, is it? Well, then…at least someone knows how to speak to an elder, not like those good-for-nothing Mudblood lovers."

Harry saw one of the portrait's eyes squinting in the unaccustomed light. He thought that he saw it widened in recognition of him, so he quickly backtracked behind the safety of the curtain.

"Whatever reason is a gorgeous woman like yourself doing hidden behind a cloth?" Malfoy purred as Harry rolled his eyes. If his voice was anymore saccharine sweet, he might as well dip himself in liquid sugar and call himself a lollipop.

He did not hear the portrait's reply, but Malfoy said, "Well, I'll be sure to remove this filthy rag as soon as I stop by the tailor's shop. Good bye, Mrs. Black."

He replaced the curtain with care and turned to Harry's disbelieving gaze.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked defensively.

"How-how did you get her to speak to you?" Harry asked in astonishment. "Usually she just yells and yells until the whole hall is screaming like banshees."

Malfoy shrugged. "I don't know…I just spoke to her as anyone would speak to a family member."

"A family member?"

"All pureblood families are related," Malfoy reminded Harry.

Harry simply shook his head in wonder. He vaguely remembered seeing Malfoy's name on a tapestry of the Black family lineage, along with several burnt holes of the disowned.

"Well, are you finished over here, boys?" Harry was ripped from his thoughts by McGonagall's voice as she walked up to the two young wizards, sweeping dust from her robes.

"Yes, just about." Harry answered.

"It looks decent enough for now," she stated as she surveyed the area around them. "Perhaps we should start on the upper floors."

"Uh, yeah." Even Harry had to admit it looked much better. He glanced at the clock; 1:30 p.m. already. "I guess we should."

"Then, shall we?" McGonagall gestured to the staircase directly down the hall and began making her way to it, Harry and Malfoy in tow.

As they began climbing the long, winding flight of stairs, McGonagall began speaking.

"Most of the upper floors have been kept up with since that is where nearly all of the Order's business was conducted," she explained. "None of the homey touches, naturally, but I'm sure we can do something soon to remedy that. The only floor that needs some exceptional improvements is the attic. With the exception of the front hall and a couple of the studies, the house has been managed, so it should not be that difficult to recover."

Harry nodded as he walked along. The ancient staircase railing underneath his hand was smooth and surprisingly free of dust. The steps beneath his feet were worn from hundreds of people bearing down on the wood over the years. When they got to the top of the stairs, the headmistress turned to the left and continued on down the corridor before stopping some feet away at one of the closed doors.

"This will be your temporary bedroom, should you later choose to move elsewhere. Now, this was one of the rooms neglected by the Order, so it is a bit messy. However, I'm confident that you'll have it cleaned in a few hours," McGonagall said promptly.

Harry nodded absentmindedly. Beside him, Malfoy watched as McGonagall reached into her robes and rummaged about for a bit until her hand retracted holding a slim silver key.

"This is a master key for all the doors that have been magically protected," she said as she held up said object. "There are several rooms like this in the house, including this room. Mister Malfoy and yourself, Mister Potter, will be able to enter these rooms without the master key; however, all those such as visitors will need a key or your permission."

She made sure that they understood. Wasting no time, she deftly slid the key into the lock, and the door opened easily on its hinges.

Immediately, Harry was impressed by the size of the room, even if the contents in it were less than desirable. There was dust on every inch of surface, the blue wallpaper had faded and torn, and there was an assortment of broken boxes and other bulky piles scattered around the room.

However, the room was quite wide and rather long and rectangular in shape, with windows facing the street. The ceiling soared overhead, and Harry could see swirling cherubs and a depiction of a Romanesque balustrade, giving the viewer the impression of staring up into a blue, tranquil sky, even past the grime that had built up. It must have been a beautiful room in its heyday.

Overall, it gave Harry a very positive feeling, almost comforting, as if it were trying to protect him. He supposed this might be true.

"It's lovely."

Harry turned toward Malfoy, who had just spoken, surprised that the blond shared his sentiments.

"Hah, I would've thought that you'd say something about how dirty it was," Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. "I can appreciate beauty, no matter how hidden it is."

Harry stood, stunned at the openness of Malfoy's words, before he smiled.

"Well, then," he grinned, "let's get to work unveiling it, then."

Immediately, they both set to work moving the ancient, useless furniture while McGonagall conjured a broom and dustpan and swept where the young wizards had moved. Occasionally, as the young wizards gathered more and more of the derelict items at one end of the room, she flicked her wand in the direction of the growing pile and disposed of it.

In the next hour or so, Harry stubbed a toe, smashed a finger, and generally became filthy, but it was worth it to look back and see what they had cleared out. A small cuckoo sound erupted from an old grandfather clock in the corner at the start of the hour, and McGonagall left to help Ed with the kitchen.

Later, Harry was busy scouring the walls with the cleansing spell that McGonagall had been using earlier in the front hall. Malfoy was at the other end of the room moving some of the smaller items that were still left to be thrown out. The garbage pile had grown mountainous; the room was nearly empty now. Only a small wardrobe at the far end of the room and a vanity stood near the door.

Malfoy bent over to pick up a rag that had fallen. Unbeknownst to Harry's conscious mind, his eyes followed the blond. When he realised just what body part he was staring at and on whom, Harry felt the blood rush to his face, and he quickly looked back to the task at hand. What was getting into him lately?

As he shoved away unexpected and strikingly disturbing thoughts, he reflected mundanely on how it had turned out that the wallpaper was actually a cornflower blue. However, when Malfoy strode up next to it, Harry was forced to acknowledge with vague fascination that the natural, faceted grey of Malfoy's eyes morphed into a rippled version of the blue.

"What?" Malfoy asked defensively when he realised that Harry was staring at him.

"Huh?" Harry snapped out of his trance, mentally scolding himself, and shook his head. "Oh…uh, nothing. I was just noticing something."

"What?" Malfoy asked, genuinely curious.

Harry blushed, suddenly afraid and somewhat shamed to say what he had been thinking. "I just…I noticed that your eyes really reflect colours a lot."

"Hmm," Malfoy mused, a small near smile twisting his lips. "Yes, I've been told that since I was a child. A natural chameleon, my mother used to call me."

Harry became aware that Malfoy had just mentioned his mother without shying away from it once he had said it. He wondered if it would be all right to say something about it.

"So…your mother…" Harry began carefully, "she sounds like a nice lady."

"Oh, she was," Malfoy said lightly. Immediately, Harry noted a distinct change in Malfoy's demeanour; he became more relaxed, and his eyes got brighter.

"Was?" Harry asked.

"Well…" the light died down a little, "she…neither of my parents are alive anymore. I'm sure you must know."

Harry hated himself as that brief, positive spell disappeared. He thought he saw a flicker of something akin to pain flutter delicately through that blessed grey. Although Harry had not heard of Narcissa's death, it did not surprise him. From the first reaction of Malfoy's the last time his mother was mentioned, Harry had guessed that was what had happened to the missing Malfoy.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured automatically.

Malfoy shook his head. "Don't be. I hate it when people say things that they don't feel."

"But I do!" Harry protested sincerely. "Trust me, Malfoy. You're not the only one without parents, remember?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply but faltered at the last second. "I, I guess you're right," he said finally.

The clock sounded again.

"Wow, it's already 4:00," Harry exclaimed with relief at the welcome distraction. He had _not_ wanted to keep on the vein of conversation. "We'd better finish before McGonagall comes back up. We'll probably be leaving soon."

Malfoy agreed as he began making his way back to the other side of the room. "I'll take care of the cabinet. It must have drawers in it - it's so heavy. After that, once you finish the walls, we should be done."

He stopped walking for a second to trail his fingers along the clean portion.

"It's not as bad as I thought. I was right. Something about it is beautiful."

Harry smiled to himself, both at the surprisingly sensitive side of Malfoy that was becoming more and more visible, and at the still cocky tone of his voice, and turned back to his job.

Across the room, he heard Malfoy jiggling the brass handle of the wardrobe. There was a faint squeak as the door swung open, and then -

Everything went black.

Instantly, earth-shattering screams, sheer banshee wails, assaulted Harry's ears. It felt like cotton was stuffing itself down his throat, through his nostrils, strung against his eyes. He struggled to breathe, heard himself gasping for air. Flashing images tore his retinas with pain.

He could feel an unexplainable anger crawling over his skin like a hundred tiny, roaming eyes. Rage became a dark, salty red splattering in a morbid shower across summer rain pavement.

"_Kill everyone!" _someone ordered with a harsh bark. It sounded strikingly familiar, but Harry could not place it._ "Leave none alive!"_

"_Mummy, mummy, wait!" _Harry heard a little girl's voice, but there was no one in sight, just blackness and chaos._ "Where are you?"_

"Stop it! Stop!"

Harry watched in horror, confusion, and growing panic as his senses were battered and slashed with bloody, obscene pictures of cruel things, dirty things. A little girl on a street corner. A woman crying over her dead baby.

The vicious grin on a man's face as he forced himself on a girl no older than twelve, his friends watching by waiting their turn, sickened Harry. When they spread her legs and the man pushed himself in, Harry could feel the searing pain deep in his own gut.

It felt like days were passing by, each burning their mark into his mind. Muted, someone was crying.

Vaguely, Harry thought he heard something, a door slamming, a name, but he could not comprehend it. Still the screams razed his eardrums. A flash of white light sizzled. It was comforting for a second, a break in the monotonous. His mind followed it, revelling in the sheer energy it seemed to radiate.

Then, everything was gone.

Harry blinked rapidly as the room came back into focus. His vision swam, and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit. He collapsed against the wall, chemical moisture soaking up from the cleansed paper. He was dimly aware of McGonagall and Ed's presence in the room. His head hurt.

"Harry! Are you alright?"

Ed flew across the room, her warm hands suddenly upon his shoulders, straightening him to look her in the eye. Harry, though, flinched away from her touch.

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry asked before his mind could catch up. He feebly tried to push Ed away.

The world felt like it had been fuzzed over with felt. Harry screwed his eyes shut then opened them. Still blurry.

"Where's Malfoy?" he repeated as he gained more control over his voice.

Slowly, his vision was coming back to him, the cornflower blue running back to the wall where it belonged, the floor regaining its wooden texture. He was aware of Ed answering him, but he abruptly ignored her when he heard a small, somehow familiar whimper. His body was throbbing like a heated coil, and it was leading him in the direction of the source of that small, pitiful sob.

"Malfoy," Harry said in a dazed voice as he recognised the head of blond hair.

As Harry crossed the room as quickly as he could manage, his own discomfort forgotten, he slowly saw that Malfoy's shoulders were trembling, realised that the plaintive, muffled sniffling was coming from him. He did not know what was going on, but he knew that Malfoy was hurting. Harry could feel it.

He reached out a hand to curl over Malfoy's shoulder and was not prepared when Malfoy suddenly turned around. He sought sanctuary in Harry, and without thinking Harry quickly wrapped his arms around Malfoy's slender form. Malfoy's cheeks were hot and wet where they pressed into Harry's neck. Something deep in Harry's chest bound across his insides.

"We are so sorry, boys," McGonagall deplored. Despite the fact that she was normally very reserved, Harry could see a liquid look of concern in her eyes. "Had we known that there was a boggart present -"

"A boggart?" Harry interjected, confused, tearing his gaze from the blond head huddled against his chest.

McGonagall had the grace to look contrite. "Yes, it must have been in the wardrobe when Mister Malfoy opened it. The boggart caught you by surprise."

"We heard all of the commotion and screaming and ran up here," Ed said. She was watching Malfoy, biting her lip. "You two were engulfed in this big black cloud. Luckily, Minerva figured out what it was almost immediately and dispelled it."

Harry shook his head; a boggart had never materialised in such an extreme and abstract form before. It had felt more like getting his life-force sucked out. And if it was a boggart…what in Hades had it been then that he had been seeing?

"We're going to need to talk about this," Harry said resolutely into Malfoy's slightly sweaty hair bundled on his shoulder. Malfoy, his breath still hitched, merely nodded his response.

Harry looked back up at the still shell-shocked McGonagall and Ed.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think it's a good idea to stay here right now. Get us back to Hogwarts."

His voice left no place for protest. McGonagall simply nodded and waved her wand to allow the wards to let them pass through. In seconds, Harry closed his eyes to the flying feeling of Apparating with Malfoy in his arms still crying gently.

------------

The return trip was a lot quicker than Harry expected. There were no reporters this time around, making it much easier and quicker to navigate through Hogsmeade unseen. Soon, they arrived back in the now familiar surroundings of the Room of Requirement.

"We will be taking care of the remaining rooms. You should be able to move in permanently tomorrow," McGonagall said. Her voice was soft and firm, her eyes lit on Malfoy full of pity. Now she knew, too.

Harry nodded gratefully before looking toward Malfoy's bowed head still huddled against his body.

"We'll be ready," he promised. With a sad nod and a quite goodbye from Ed, McGonagall led the way out, shutting the door with a subdued click.

They stood standing in the middle of the room with nothing but the sound of the gently crackling fire in their ears until Malfoy spoke up some time later.

"I'm sorry..." Malfoy pushed himself out of Harry's arms. Harry frowned at the chill that rushed to the now empty place in his arms.

"For what?" Harry questioned curiously.

Malfoy looked disgusted, more with himself than anybody, as he said, "For making such a spectacle out of myself. It won't happen again."

"Now, Malfoy, that's a bit harsh," Harry demurred. "You couldn't help what happened."

Malfoy's face twisted. "I should have known better than to open something that I didn't know contained a spell or enchantment. It could have been something much more dangerous than a boggart."

"Come now," Harry insisted gently, "it wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was," Malfoy hissed vehemently.

A little taken back at Malfoy's harsh tone but still unwilling to back down, Harry replied, "We still should talk about what happened."

"No, I don't think so. Nothing happened," Malfoy denied.

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy. Both you and I know it's not healthy to keep things like that bottled up."

"Things like what exactly?" Malfoy's eyes flashed.

Harry sighed. "You know very well what."

"No, I don't."

"Malfoy..."

"No! I don't want to talk about this."

This time it was Harry's turn to get angry. He knew what Malfoy was doing, and while he understood the boy's reason for the defensive tactics, that did not mean that Harry was going to tolerate them right now. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Well, I _do_. So drag yourself out of the denial because that's not going to work."

Malfoy sneered and narrowed his eyes as he said, "What - you think you can just command me to do something and I'll do it?"

"No," Harry interjected, "but I do expect you to use your brain and think about it."

"Well, I have and I still don't want to talk about it," Malfoy countered stubbornly.

"Stop being so ridiculous, Malfoy," Harry said with a hard edge to his voice. "You can't just hide from it."

"I'm not hiding from anything."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Harry exploded. "Just listen to yourself! 'I'm not hiding from anything,' my arse, Malfoy. Stop skirting around the issue and talk to me already."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he took the few steps between them until he was so close that Harry could see the dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

"You want to hear me talk, Potter?" he said darkly. "Well, guess what -"

Harry could not help but stare at Malfoy's sneering lips as the blond pushed his face so close that their noses nearly touched.

" - _no_."

Harry's mouth dropped open as Malfoy stepped back with his arms crossed and a grimly satisfied look on his face.

"What?" Harry exclaimed disbelievingly. "You-you can't just say that!"

"I do believe I just did, Potter."

"Malfoy, I know you, and -"

"_No_," Malfoy hissed with such venom that it instantly cut Harry short. "You know nothing about me."

Harry soon recovered from his shock and shook his head. "I know enough to know that the Malfoy I knew would not let somebody trample all over him and tell him what to do, nor cry over something like a boggart."

Malfoy looked like he had just been slapped.

"You pompous bastard," he growled. "You think you know everything, and it just_ kills _you when you don't. You don't know one fucking thing about me, Potter, and you never will."

"Oh, but I beg to differ," Harry said, shaking his head again. He waved his hands earnestly as he went on. "The Malfoy I knew was proud and snarky and held his head high even when he was wrong. He was intelligent and, even though barely anyone knew it, ranked second only to Hermione. He could brew potions in under a fraction of the time it took even Snape, and he fired off insults faster than he could duel."

" - Stop. Just _stop_." Malfoy looked like he could barely stand what he was hearing, but Harry ignored his protests and plunged on.

"The Malfoy I knew was often scared but never showed it until I found him one day crying in front of a broken sink with no one but a ghost at his side, and I made a mistake then. Instead of helping him, I did the exact opposite and made things worse. After that, I promised myself that never again would I allow such a thing to happen. I _swore_, and I intend to keep that promise."

"I don't need your help," Malfoy said hoarsely.

"I know you need someone to lean on right now."

"You know nothing." The words changed but the protest stayed the same. Malfoy's eyes flashed as he turned away; Harry thought he saw something like hurt showing through the cellophane surface.

"You don't know what went on and what goes on in my head everyday, how I see the disgust in people's eyes every time they look at me. _'Filthy whore .Dirty Death Eater'_. It's like I can hear exactly what they're thinking. That boy you remember? He died a long time ago along with everything that really mattered. There's nothing left of him now. Nothing."

Malfoy's voice was bitter, angry, resigned.

"You wanted me to talk, Potter? That's what's running through my mind right now."

Harry was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts, but it was not long before he softly offered, "You're wrong, you know."

Malfoy scoffed exasperatedly. "What more do you want, Potter? Stop being such a damned -"

"Let me finish," Harry interrupted. His gentle tone must have caught Malfoy's attention because, though he did not acquiesce, he did stay silent.

Harry nodded almost to himself and went on. "I still see that boy in you. He's in the way you walk and sneer and the way you argue. I can see him in your eyes sometimes, when you let your guard down and actually allow yourself to smile. I see more than you think. I just wish you could see how much better things could be if you just let me in, even a little bit."

"I don't have to listen to this." Malfoy stood there grinding his teeth before he swiftly turned on his heel and began striding away from Harry until suddenly Harry's voice stopped him.

"Draco...stop. Please."

At the sound of Harry's quiet plea, Malfoy fell silent. His steps stilled, but he did not turn around.

"Draco?" Malfoy repeated softly in near silent question. His head tilted to the side, nearly looking behind him but not.

"..._Malfoy_," Harry righted his momentary slip of the tongue. He took a small step toward Malfoy. "Just stop this. You know that this can't go on. It's not helping either of us right now."

Harry expected some smart remark or stinging insult, but all that greeted him was an awkward pause. Silence permeated the room for a long while. It was a sick, muggy silence that bore down like a blanket of discomfort. It spiked in Harry's ears until some time later when he heard Malfoy give a barely discernable sigh. His shoulders sagged as he turned around, and he looked so tired, so very, very tired. The blond's abrupt show of vulnerability stunned Harry for a second.

"What do you want from me, Potter?" he asked flatly.

"I don't want anything," Harry gave a helpless shrug, not knowing what to say without fucking up. "I just want you to talk to me...to take off some of the weight on your shoulders."

"Weight off my shoulders, Potter?" Malfoy chuckled humourlessly. "What would you know about that? It's not like you really care. All in a day's work for the hero."

Harry sighed. "No, Malfoy, that's not it," he spread his arms to encompass the air around him, "and you know it. And I do care. I know that what happened earlier today, what I saw, wasn't something that was my business, but it is now. I can't pretend it never happened. You're wrong about me - I care that it scared you...and I," Harry swallowed painfully; he did not know why he was suddenly so nervous. "I care that you're hurting so much when maybe I could take some of that away."

For long, tense moments Malfoy stared at Harry with an unreadable expression. His shuttered eyes were flat as Harry got the impression that they were surveying and judging him. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his fingers twisting knots in his pockets.

"You don't know what you're asking." Malfoy's mouth was a thin line. As Harry took another step closer, he saw the slenderly muscled body further tighten.

"Malfoy, please don't fight me," Harry begged as he saw this. "Please."

"I'm not," he replied tonelessly, then a little trickle of life wove into his voice. "I just..." He seemed so unsure of what he was going to say. "I don't know...I've never done this before. It's confusing."

Malfoy shook his head, but Harry held his breath.

After a while, when it seemed Malfoy was not going to continue, Harry opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to change his mind at the last minute. Instead, he switched directions and perched on the side of Malfoy's bed.

"Come here."

Malfoy looked startled and unsure of what Harry was doing. "Why?" he questioned warily, his eyes scanning Harry up and down.

"Just sit down. I promise I'm not going to do anything," Harry said jokingly.

His tone appeared to put Malfoy at ease; within a few seconds, Malfoy's resolve softened and he sat down, albeit at the far end of the bed.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, and finally after a time he spoke. "You know…boggarts used to terrify me as much as dementors."

Startled at the sudden change in topic, Malfoy could not help asking, "Why were you afraid of dementors?"

Harry shrugged but was secretly glad that his ploy seemed to be working.

"Well, Dementors always bother me, no matter how many times I've had to deal with or be around them. The memories they bring up…" he shook his head, "are hard to ignore. I hear my mum and dad dying, hear my mum pleading over and over again to spare me. Never asking for herself. Always me." He turned to Malfoy, whose face was an expressionless, yet almost sympathetic mask, and smiled dryly. "Just the thing to hear while trying to argue with Ministry officials, right?"

"That it is," Malfoy said softly.

His silver eyes were quiet and gently penetrating. As Malfoy stared at Harry, the brunet fought down an instinct to shiver. His gaze made Harry's skin tingle with the intensity. Malfoy, for his part, seemed to understand how personal Harry's confession had been. He, also, appeared to accept it which was a test in itself for the Boy Who Lived.

"Why do you want to know about me?" Malfoy asked quietly, suddenly. "What do you think it will accomplish?"

This was a side of Malfoy that Harry had only seen the first night Harry had become his watcher, when they had first been left alone in the Room of Requirement. Although his abrupt change to the heart of the issue did surprise Harry at first, he supposed that it was just the sort of thing that Malfoy would do.

"I don't know," Harry answered truthfully. He shrugged. "Maybe if nothing else you'll have someone you can talk to."

"Someone I can talk to…" Malfoy mulled the words over in his mouth, almost as if he were tasting them. "Someone I can talk to…"

He glanced over at Harry, at a decision it appeared. "Do you know what you're asking?" he asked for the final time with serious questioning in his eyes.

For once in his life, Harry felt complete confidence in his next words. "Yes, I do."

"Then come here."

**End of Chapter Ten.**

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**A/N**: MWHAUAUAUAHAUAHAUA!!!! evil grin Okay, there's a little more to the boggart thing that needs to be explained. Draco will be opening up next chapter as well as giving us our first taste of boy love! I'll bet you're thinking "Wtf. She just led us through this gigantic, tedious chapter…and then just CUTS OFF?!" Yeah, I'm evil.


	11. The Son of Traitors

**Title**: System Discordia  
**Author**: Eris Mackenzie  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.  
**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.  
**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

**A/N: **Oh, man, I'm feeling proud. I actually got a chapter out without taking about seven months. About the room, though, I dunno…I just really, really like it. Kinda strange having an attachment to an imaginary room. Anyway, sorry if it bores anyone too much! Also, my beta had a concern with the interaction between Harry and his friends being a little too friendly. However, this will feed into something else, so hang on there for a little bit.

**NOTE: if you are confused about the flat scene with the little girl, then go back to the second chapter and read the article that Harry is reading at the beginning. It will give you a better idea of what happened.**

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**Chapter Eleven: The Son of Traitors**

_"Tears are the silent language of grief." -Voltaire_

_------------_

Cautiously, Harry scooted across the bed, stopping about half a foot from Malfoy's form. He was not sure what to expect, and it made him slightly uncomfortable to know Malfoy's eyes were on him, watching him. It was not that he was frightened, but something about the abrupt change of the aura around the room caused his skin to prickle in some peculiar semblance of tentacled anticipation.

"Come closer," Malfoy commanded.

Crinkling his eyebrows but nevertheless going along with the strange request, Harry did as asked and copied Malfoy's cross-legged position. He turned to face Malfoy, noting perhaps a little too closely that their knees were touching.

Harry watched as Malfoy leaned forward, his solemn face only scant inches away from Harry's own. Then, Harry felt a soft, delicate touch at his temples, and Malfoy's dry hands were on either side of his face. Harry's breath sped up without his knowledge, his face tinged a light rose. He suddenly wondered abstractedly what someone would think if he or she were to walk in right that second.

Harry opened his mouth, succeeding at first merely in a doing his best impression of a guppy, before he spoke.

"What are you -"

"Ssh…"

Harry was cut off by Malfoy's smooth, concentrated voice. For some obscure reason, the very sound of it made Harry suddenly envision pliable, smudged chamois leather draped over iron. Across from him, Malfoy had closed his eyes and looked to be focusing very hard on something. His warm hands on either side of Harry's face was strangely comforting, and Harry found his eyes closing of their own accord, allowing the small, circular rubbing motion of Malfoy's fingers against his temples to sooth his torrent of thoughts.

For the first half of a minute, there was nothing but the sound of the two men breathing. Harry's brows knit together, though, when he felt the first ephemeral, wispy trickles tingling at the corners of his brain where Malfoy's fingers were connected to his temples.

"Malfoy…"

Mellifluously, slowly, like a translucent muslin curtain fluttering in a cool desert night breeze, a feeling passed over Harry like nothing before. He understood at the very least that Malfoy was turning the key to unlock his mind, but it felt nothing like it had when Voldemort had done it. Rather than Voldemort crumbling down walls, Malfoy's mind washed over Harry like a tranquil cream wave whispering softly to him, breaking over his body with some exquisite hurt. Though it was an odd sensation, Harry welcomed Malfoy's caresses on his very psyche.

"What," Harry breathed. It was suddenly extremely difficult to form the slippery words that rounded and rolled across his lips. "What are you…"

"I'm showing you what it's like…being me," Malfoy whispered softly, "why I am this way."

Harry shivered as Malfoy's unexpectedly silky voice washed over him, twisted from the normal octaves to the most stimulating, yet peaceful sound in the universe. He did not know if Malfoy understood how he was making Harry feel, but he had an idea that the blond did.

Past the small, slight breathing tones he heard and could almost feel in the body which he now seemed to share, Harry became aware of an out of focus picture forming. Faint sounds and laughter came with it, as if he were in a theatre viewing an old film strip. A memory, came the conclusion, but it was not important.

Harry was suddenly looking up at Lucius Malfoy, but this was a younger, happier version of the man Harry had come to know. Harry stood at the elder Malfoy's waist, looking up, and it took Harry a second to understand that he was seeing the memory through Malfoy's eyes.

Lucius reached down, smiling at his son, as he picked him up and swung him in the air.

As the much younger Malfoy swished through the air, he giggled delightedly. They were outside, and a flash of blue birds and cool autumn air breezed his senses. From the sound of his voice and the chubby hands Harry could see clapping in front of him, Malfoy could not have been more than five years old.

"Again, Daddy, again!" the miniature Draco squealed.

"Oh, no, Draco." Lucius shook his head as he set his son down with a small smile on his lips. "I think Mummy's waiting for us."

Draco pouted and huffed as all small children do when they do not get what they want, but true to Lucius' prediction, Harry heard a warm voice - Narcissa's, he knew instinctively - call out, "Tea time, loves!"

"Mummy! Daddy wouldn't do it anymore!" Draco complained when he came into the mansion from the outside grounds where he and his father had been playing.

"What wouldn't he do anymore?" Narcissa asked with amusement as she set down a crystal saucer.

This was another person Harry did not recognise immediately; the woman seemed to glow with warmth, and her aristocratic beauty was even further enhanced by the happiness in her eyes. Lucius went to give her a quick peck and a "You look lovely," before he sat down at the elegant table where a delectable assortment of chocolate biscuits and the afternoon tea had been set.

Narcissa helped Draco sit atop his slightly raised chair before she herself sat and began passing around the teapot. It made Harry curious that they would not have simply magicked it all onto their plates or have had the house elves do it, but it appeared to be a tradition with the family.

It shocked Harry how stunningly normal and loving Malfoy's parents had been. Harry, along with most of the school, had thought that Malfoy had grown up with the same coldness he displayed to the outer world.

"Daddy wouldn't play anymore," Draco huffed.

"Well, dear, it was time for tea." Narcissa smiled indulgingly as she patted the napkin she placed under Draco's chin. "You don't want to get hungry later and have nothing to eat, now do you?"

"But, _Mummy_…" the little boy whined, swinging his legs against the chair.

It was at this time that the picture started fading, blurring back to how it was before. The last thing Harry could make out was Lucius laughing, a bizarre sound Harry decided, and leaning over to muss the fine hair atop Draco's head.

Instead of going back to that calming blank wave, the images morphed straight into another scene. However, this one was quite a bit more sombre.

Harry was in a dark hallway, peeking into what appeared to be a lit study. He stood a little taller, his head past the ornate oak wainscoting beside him, but he could not have been more than a few years older than in the last memory, perhaps seven or eight.

He could hear voices speaking urgently in the room, but Harry had the impression that at Malfoy's age he did not quite understand. However, Harry was not as young as Malfoy and could well comprehend what was going on.

"Narcissa, he…I can feel it. He's planning something again. The Dark Lord. It's barely there, but his calling gets stronger with each passing year."

Lucius was on his knees, his head cradled in Narcissa's lap. Narcissa's slender hands flowed through Lucius' hair as she sought to comfort her distraught husband, but Harry was under the impression that he needed much more than that simple touch. The air in the room, Harry could feel, confused the younger Draco, but to Harry it was the discomforting, oppressive atmosphere of impending worry. Unfortunately, the feeling was all too familiar to the Boy Who Lived.

"…What do you plan to do, Lucius?" Narcissa's voice was soft and caring, but she sounded almost reserved in her questioning.

It was obvious what Narcissa thought about the situation, but it struck Harry just how much faith she must have had in her husband to allow him to make such an important decision.

"I -" Lucius shook his head. A look of near pain crossed his features. "I don't know," he finally whispered. "I won't loose you both to that monster, not again. I don't want Draco to have to go through that. He's too good for this, too innocent."

Narcissa, for all of her goddess-like distance, looked like she was about to cry. "He…is our son."

The blond witch tilted Lucius' face up to hers as they shared a mutual kiss of foredoomed grief, and the scene blurred out.

A young man with knotted brown hair and tear-streaked eyes was tied, on his knees, in the middle of a cold, square, stone room. They must have been in a dungeon. Blood had dried shut a phenomenally large gash along his hairline, but, when he moved, parts of the wound reopened and seeped red droplets. Draco stood just outside the cell opening, spying as he had been in the last memory. Harry saw a brief reflection of Draco's face in a small puddle on the floor. He was possibly ten years old; baby fat still rounded his cheeks.

Lucius stood before the man, an unfamiliar cold look in his eyes, something that Draco had never seen.

"What did you say to them, Bordeaux?" he said in an iron voice.

Combined, Harry and Draco had to force down a shiver at the sheer lack of mercy in Lucius' words. Harry knew that if that man resisted Lucius, it would not go down well for the wizard.

"I didn't say anything!" the man sobbed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Draco stifled a gasp behind his hand as he saw his daddy strike the man hard across the face. The cry of shock and stunned pain on display made Draco feel bad, almost guilty, inside.

"I didn't say anything!" Bordeaux moaned. "I didn't say anything…"

It was obvious, however, that Lucius did not believe him. The older blond wizard stepped up to Bordeaux and grasped a handful of his mousy brown hair in his fist so hard that his knuckles turned white. Draco jumped and felt tears sting his eyes when, abruptly, his father slammed the man's head into the floor. A corona of wet, vivid red splattered like a mutant and morose painting of a halo on the grey stone. Why was his daddy doing these mean things?

Lucius did this over and over again until the man's pleading had quieted to a mere agonised whimper.

"Please…" Bordeaux whispered past a thin film of blood. "Please, I didn't do it."

The picture faded out right before Lucius raised his wand arm, a spell on his lips, but Harry knew, without needing to see, what he was going to do. He, also, knew that Draco would never look at his father the same way again.

It was strange the next few moments, or hours, or days, years. Harry saw little snippets of Draco's life as if it were flying by on a viewing screen, going too fast to get a clear depiction but seeing enough to compile a theory nevertheless.

Harry found it disconcerting to see his own self, both younger and more present, speaking to Malfoy, duelling with him, or all-out fist fighting. Harry could feel Malfoy's hurt that Harry had unknowingly or purposefully caused that had been hidden so well behind the grey eyes out of which he now peered. He saw his own mouth form words that had burned, and Malfoy standing in front of the mirror later that night wondering if they were true. Was it honestly like that? Was he really so despicable? Malfoy wondered.

Harry could barely keep his emotions separate from those of Malfoy until they finally ran together into a molten mixture of laughter, confusion, frustration, doubt, and a prominent amount of sorrow and pain.

He was shown that Malfoy had never been that cold, heartless pureblood that Harry had always assumed he was. Inside, Malfoy felt more than he showed, cried more than most, was a new definition of a bleeding heart. He felt the first betrayal of Malfoy's parents in the form of the Cruciatus curse even though he knew it was for his own good to understand the way that the Dark Lord worked. Harry felt a burning hate directed at himself for the way things had turned out for Draco, despite his rational mind knowing it was not true. Harry found himself wishing he had looked closer at Malfoy during their school years to see the dark circles under his eyes or the way that he had gone days without eating because it had made him sick.

Harry was vaguely aware of his hands sliding up Malfoy's arms and tapering down past his sharp joints to his hands, felt his fingers twining with Malfoy's own as he continued pouring his life story into the only person who would listen, who had ever bothered to.

Harry whispered Malfoy's name like a prayer painfully forced from his lips as another image flew past his mind's eye. The answering, solid warmth of Malfoy's hands tightening around his own was comforting. He thought he felt an inkling of regret and pity and perhaps something less certain before it was whisked away on a cloud into another memory.

This one was much farther into the future, just a few months ago. Harry had just enough time to recognise the flat building from one of the many London newspapers he had scoured before his eyes were wrenched away.

This memory was different, Harry noticed immediately. He was seeing it, not through Malfoy's eyes, but of those belonging to an onlooker.

In the background, far away in the room where Harry's physical body sat, he could hear Malfoy's voice speaking. It was faint, blowing away with the wind and coming back in full force before flying further.

_Despite everything I've done and that has happened to me, despite all that my worst memory is of a little girl._

People were dying, falling over in heaps everywhere. It was chaos, a rampage, on a London street.

Then, Harry saw Malfoy amid all this madness and turmoil, all this ash and fire. His robes were streaked with grey and something darker, wetter, far more pungent and liquid. Blood. In his right hand he held his wand extended, white-knuckled. Harry fought down a shiver of unease at the stony, unaffected look on his face. He could have been strolling through a park but for the crimson slicked over his hands and face, spattered throughout his hair.

_The Death Eaters had stormed through the flats, and there was chaos everywhere. Everything was burning, and there wasn't an airwave without a scream riding on it. I was one of the last to get there. I had hid in the back lines. My stomach kept clenching, and I could barely feel my fists. I was so scared. They had been watching me to determine if I would betray…_

Harry watched in horror as Malfoy walked down the avenue, not killing, no, but the dead expression his eyes when he looked down at the people begging for mercy was anaesthetised, deadened. Like he did not even care. Someone was crying, sobbing, but there was no one in sight who had the time for that.

_Someone ran past me - a woman, I think - and suddenly I was racing down the street. I wanted out of there as fast as I could._

Harry's sight was burning a red world as blood began blurring his vision. He was confused for a moment before he realised, horrified, that it was from the other people falling all around him. Piles of them, dozens, all along this grey-bricked road.

_I heard Mulciber behind me, yelling something at the others. They ran past me, toward the others that had somehow escaped…then…then through all of this screaming and death, I saw this little girl with blond curls holding a handkerchief in one hand. She was just…_standing _there, under a broken streetlamp, watching it all happen._

Harry watched Malfoy walk closer to the little girl, something unknowable in his eyes, but it resembled pity, sympathy, destitution. It was the look of a cornered man with only one option, and it was not one he wanted.

_She was so innocent…so scared. Terrified. None of it had anything to do with her._

"Haha, well, look what we have here."

Harry recognised Mulciber, one of the many Death Eaters he had come to despise, as he strolled up a few feet behind Malfoy.

"Nice work, Malfoy, you caught us a good one."

_At first I didn't understand, but then I heard Rabastan Lestrange laughing to the other Death Eaters, saying something about what children like her were made for._

Suddenly, Harry saw Malfoy's face in the Room of Requirement, but it was like staring at him through gauze, faint but there. Tears were marring his eyes, turning them to churning, roiling mercury.

_I couldn't let them use her like that! I knew what they were going to do. I know what…what I did was…_

Malfoy shook his head. The tears spilled out from under his closed lids; Harry felt them splatter on his knee to settle into miniature saltwater oceans. Suddenly, Harry wished he could move.

Harry saw the memory Malfoy walk up to the girl, raise his wand…

_It was better than what they would have done. It wasn't right, gods, no…_

"Avada Kedavra!"

…_but it was better than that._

Harry felt his own disbelief and shock mixing with Malfoy's own as that beautiful little girl was enveloped in fatal green light, the colour of Harry's own eyes. When it vanished, she fell to the ground, her eyes still wide open in shock and confusion but now faded to a sick, reptilian sheen. Limp as a rag doll, Harry thought weakly.

Her handkerchief blew down the street.

In the next darkness, Harry heard an agonised, forced scream and knew unthinkingly that it was Malfoy getting punished for his insubordinance. He could barely hold down his abrupt rage and feeling of utter iniquity for whoever was inflicting such pain on the blond. _It wasn't right, but it was better than that._

It switched again.

Calm. Grey. Cold.

Draco was lying in a single bed. The room was bare, dingy, and dank, the look of a hundred other desolate hotels on back street alleys. The blond was naked and frigid with the chill underneath the scratchy, stained sheets. Gooseflesh rose in millions of sarcastic salutes against the cloth, but it was nothing compared to the deadened miasma swirling sickeningly inside of his head.

Everything was quiet. Everything was flat.

Outside, Harry could hear the rain falling. _Pit-pat-pit-pat_….

The room whirled like a nauseatingly macabre wheel of fortune as Harry realised it was Draco's hot tears puddling in his eyes.

_Shame_, that one word quietly screamed into Harry's consciousness. _Shame_.

Never in his life had Draco felt such utter dirtiness under his skin, like a thousand itching insects burrowing into his insides. It burned. And it would happen again and again until the Dark Lord saw fit.

Beside him, a man stood and gathered his clothes.

"This is what you're made for, _Malfoy_," Harry remembered someone saying. It was strange, a memory within a memory. "This is your punishment for being who you are."

Malfoy looked about the room with a stony gaze.

Around the table sat half a dozen traitor Death Eaters, all captains and generals of individual legions within the Dark Lord's army. Malfoy's father had contacted them after months of planning, and now they were all betraying their master for a common cause - freedom.

One by one, they nodded. Harry felt the hidden relief flood behind Malfoy's mask.

"Then, this is what must be done."

Harry found himself following along with Draco's speech. The knowledge that Malfoy had stored away in his own brain was mapped out before Harry, suffused into his consciousness.

Malfoy was slinking low in a field in the dark night. He saw Malfoy standing in a room, a glowing orb directly in front of him, watched as the spiteful Bellatrix Lestrange burst in and killed his comrade. Now, Harry understood just what the Burning Ball was.

Then, he was bombarded with a scene even worse than before.

At the sight of Malfoy bent over the table, covered in blood and vomit and Merlin-know-what-else, Harry fought down his gag reflex. When he realised what the Death Eater behind Malfoy was doing to him, Harry gasped.

Suddenly, urgently needing to _feel _Malfoy, to bear down this unexplainable pain racking his soul, Harry automatically reached out, grasped the present Malfoy, and pulled him into his lap.

Malfoy did not protest. Instead, he allowed Harry to pull him closer, his shoulders arching rearward to accommodate his awkward position, and he rested his blond head atop Harry's.

"Ssh…it's okay. It's okay, Harry," Malfoy whispered.

Harry shivered, still in his magic-induced trance, and buried his face in Malfoy's shoulder. It was not okay.

"Stop!" Draco screamed.

All around him, he could see bodies hanging, a whole forest of them. Then, suddenly, his father was being gutted, but wait, was that his mother instead?

Harry's mind felt like it was on fire one minute, submerged in ice the next. Vaguely, he could hear someone whispering something, an enchantment or a curse, but it did not matter. All that mattered was the torment that was ravaging his body, altering his mind into a beaten muscle, tired and defenceless. His lower belly churned with molten pain and sheer heat; Harry could almost feel the warm blood flowing out over his skin.

"Fucking whore!"

"_Harry…" _Someone whispered his name, a sound of pure anguish and need. Draco, it was Draco. It was like layering sensations as Harry felt his arms tighten around Malfoy when he, also, had the feeling of being Malfoy strung over the table.

He could not tell if it was blood or Malfoy's tears that was wetting his skin.

The images were gradually slowing. Harry saw his own face in front of him, twisted in concern and something less definite, from that day in the Infirmary. Harry felt the unexplainable relief that had flooded Malfoy's system at the sight of Harry's familiar face, his bloody hands clutching Malfoy's own, and then the plunging realisation that Harry had left him the next day.

As the last vision faded like a broken film strip from his mind, Harry gradually became aware of his surroundings again, of his arms around Malfoy, of the small shaking permeating the blond's frame. He felt surreal now that he was alone again in his mind.

Harry realised, as a hot, wet droplet smeared against the skin of his neck, that Malfoy was crying again.

"Oh," Harry whispered. His voice was shaking. "I'm so sorry…I'm sorry…" And he really was sorry, more so than he had ever been before in his life, sorry for suffering so horrible that had been forced to be born that should not have been.

He squeezed the young man closer, cupped Malfoy's head in the palm of his hand. Harry threaded his fingers through Malfoy's hair, massaging his scalp like he remembered some kind-fingered, lilac-smelling apparition doing once. Malfoy continued his quiet tirade of grief, his silent homage to pain.

"Do you understand now? Do you understand?" Malfoy said weakly past some obscure suffering.

Harry did not need to reply as he felt the tears start prickling his eyes. Something wet and salty slid down Harry's own cheek to be licked away on the curve of his mouth.

'It is not fair,' Harry thought fiercely. Flashes of the images he had just seen kept running through his mind. Harry's own body ached as if it had been the one afflicted. 'I won't let that happen again. He did not deserve it.'

Of all the racing, throbbing thoughts in Harry's mind, the only one that made it out of his mouth was, "I'm sorry."

"Just…just…" Malfoy could not seem to say what he wanted, so he fell back into the comforting vortex Harry's thoughts provided.

"_Please hold me." _Malfoy's voice within Harry's mind was pleading, nothing more than a watery whisper, and it broke Harry's heart.

Harry gritted his teeth. As he turned his head, Malfoy's matte skin whispered across his lips, beating fiercely with every pulse of Malfoy's heart. Harry imagined himself floating along those beautiful red rivers to discover the secrets of Malfoy's body, the very tissues that made him up.

They sat there lingering, long enough surely for Malfoy's joints to ache from the position, until Malfoy's tears were but a scant few. The pain had dulled down to a bearable level, but Harry was not willing to give up their physical connection just yet. As he trailed his fingers down Malfoy's spine, Harry felt himself accepting what he had seen, accepting this mismatched man. That did not make him any less sorrowful.

When Malfoy's breathing had evened out, the room became quiet. It was some time before either of the men spoke, and when they did it was about what they had just shared.

"That little girl was the first person I ever killed, you know," Malfoy murmured quietly, almost as if he did not want to face Harry's judgement.

"What?" Harry asked softly, turning his head slightly toward Malfoy. The blond had returned to his position of leaning his head on Harry's shoulder, but his face faced outward, away from Harry's gaze.

"That night, Voldemort had given the Death Eaters orders to raid the flats," Malfoy spoke gingerly as he took his time explaining. "It was a large establishment, and a lot of people were already asleep. The Death Eaters killed some in their beds - a mercy, if it could be called that. I was told to go with them. I knew I was being judged, put on trial so to speak. It was my first mission with the squad. Terrorism, that was what I was a part of."

Harry stayed silent as Malfoy continued talking. This was his story, and Harry knew he would be told the whole thing. Mildly, Harry's fingers stroked the nape of Malfoy's neck. It seemed to help the blond think as his sentences came less fragmented and stronger.

"There was all of this confusion, and people screaming. Fires had been started in the building that forced the residents onto the street. I guess it didn't matter to the Death Eaters that they were in broad view, because they killed the people anyway. _Innocent_ people; they had done nothing wrong. Just like that little girl…" Malfoy trailed off.

"It was…a hard decision," Harry said slowly. "If she had lived, worse things would have happened."

"Yes, but what if she had somehow been able to escape?" Malfoy sounded almost angry at himself, his voice tilted toward frustration that revealed how familiar a topic this was for him. "I took away any semblance of that change when I cast the Killing Curse."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it after a moment, and sighed. "…You'll never completely know. That is what makes decisions so difficult. No one can predict what would have happened if they chose otherwise."

"I know…" Malfoy said tiredly as he closed his eyes and exhaled. "But I can't help thinking about it."

Harry decided not to comment as the silence stretched on. He knew that Malfoy understood what had transpired between them and what his views were on it. After a few minutes, Harry merely shook his head, glanced at the clock, and saw that they had been sitting there for nearly three hours.

"Mal -" Harry stopped for a second as he heard his own voice. It felt ridiculous to address Malfoy by his last name. Harry felt that after all they had shared, perhaps… "Draco, you must be exhausted."

Malfoy looked up at his given name, surprise trying and failing to express itself. The blond just nodded as if that was not what he had expected but would accept, this new, small but monumental, change.

"I am," he replied softly. "It's late."

Malfoy stirred from Harry's lap and slid back onto the bed. Harry noted, as always, how cold it felt when the blond backed away.

They did not need to consult with each other to understand that they both needed rest, and a lot of it. By mutual consent, Harry crossed the room to the other bed and began pulling down the sheets. It was funny, but Harry thought he would have been awkward around Malfoy had he known he would have been shown something so raw earlier; now, however, all either of them felt was a numb, cottony fatigue.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy headed into the bathroom. The sound of running water could be heard as Malfoy rinsed his weary face and quickly brushed over his teeth. He returned to the bedroom and began mechanically getting dressed in his night clothing, pulling the soft material over his skin with forced movements.

Harry copied Malfoy's nightly routine to some extent, but he was too eager to sleep that he skimped over most of them. Harry pulled his sheets back and took off his glasses.

"…Harry?" Malfoy called his name quietly into the darkness.

Instinctively, Harry turned around but could not make much out of anything.

"Yeah?" he answered.

Malfoy was quiet for a moment and Harry thought maybe he had been hearing things when Malfoy timidly requested, "Will-will you stay over here with me tonight?"

"What?" Harry squinted in the dark, trying in vain to get a better glimpse of the blond to make sure he had heard correctly.

"I…It would make me feel better…I…" Malfoy's voice softened in hesitation before fading to nothing.

The room fell silent for a few moments, though not in a dismissive manner. Harry could almost feel Malfoy's churning thoughts as he waited patiently for the other man to speak.

Finally, Harry heard Malfoy admit, "I feel safer when you're around."

Harry stayed rooted, his mind going over what Malfoy had just asked for several seconds. Then, after a while, he slowly nodded. He knew that Malfoy needed him right now.

"Sure," he answered, carefully nonchalant, as if this kind of thing happened all the time.

Malfoy sighed, and Harry could tell from the sound of it that Malfoy was relieved Harry had not pushed the issue.

"Do you have a side of the bed you prefer?" Harry asked as he ambled back over to Malfoy's side.

Malfoy shook his head, and Harry shrugged before sliding over to the far left side. The bed dipped slightly with Malfoy's added weight before he, too, stretched out.

In retrospect, the absurdity of the situation would have made Harry gawk at any other time. However, for the moment, as his eyes closed, the warmth, security, and knowledge that he was not alone was well worth it. He felt at the back of his mind that Malfoy agreed.

---------

It was strange, Harry decided, having someone else in bed with you.

As Harry's mind slowly surfaced, he sensed something was different but did not immediately remember what had happened the previous night. He was unconsciously enjoying the reassuring warmth of the body curled to his right when he finally did recall. Harry's immediate instinct was to snap open his eyes, but he forced himself to lie still and prostrate so as not to disturb Malfoy, whom Harry was almost certain was still sleeping peacefully beside him.

Harry drew in deep breaths as his thoughts raced through the new memories that had crowded it the night before. As the images scrolled past his mind, Harry felt a mirror of those emotions he had felt stir deep in his chest. However, he knew that he could not get upset over them so early in the morning, for judging from the soft, filtered sunlight it could not have been more than nine or ten o'clock.

After he had gone through, categorised, and re-familiarised himself with the majority of Malfoy's memories, Harry finally did open his eyes. At first, he was a little startled by how close Malfoy and himself were; scarce inches separated their faces. Just how innocent the blond wizard looked while asleep made Harry's mouth quirk into an unexpected smile. It was ironic, considering how much of the world Malfoy had been forced to see in so short a time. Innocent, he was anything but.

The initial surprise soon faded, however, and Harry was left wondering a little bizarrely about trivial things such as just how unexpectedly comfortable and warm-blooded the legendarily stoic Draco Malfoy was.

'Draco…' Harry tried out Malfoy's first name in his mind. The Latin name rolled strangely across the terrain of his brainwaves, but it was not a wholly unpleasant experience. It would still take some getting used to, he ultimately decided.

For some reason, Professor Binns, the ghost of a history teacher, popped into his mind, and it took Harry a second to figure out why. He nearly laughed aloud at the connection when he remembered a lesson on ancient Roman myths several years before; Acteon, a mythical hunter who had accidentally stumbled upon the bathing goddess Diana, had gotten torn apart by his hounds for punishment, one of whom was named Draco. It just went to show that whether a hound or a dragon or a person, Draco would not stand to be enslaved.

Harry's thoughts were pulled back to the physical when Malfoy - _Draco_, he reminded himself - moved. A small sleep moan hummed through Draco's throat as he shifted in his slumber. Draco's right hand (his wand hand, Harry remembered) came up to rest itself in front of the curvature of his face, his fingertips barely grazing the tip of his nose. His legs curled underneath him into a further fetal position as his knees situated themselves just above Harry's, pressing the knobs of bone and flesh into his legs. Harry held his breath for a second, fearing the blond man would awake, but Draco's eyes did not open. He stilled a moment later.

He really was too delicate to be a man, Harry mused as his gaze set on Draco's face. His skin was paler than the night before, his cheeks tinged a soft, powdered rose. Upon his high, aristocratic cheekbones, Draco's fair eyelashes rested softly, as if to brush away the merlot shadows that finely dyed the skin around his eyes. Draco's lips parted in his sleep, and his pink slip of a tongue flickered out for a brief flash of a second. Yet, for all his near frailty and diaphanous beauty, there was still something elusive about his features that bespoke of something much stronger, fiery, and unarguably masculine. No, he would not be confused with a woman on any terms.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice until much later that Draco had awakened and was watching him as intently as Harry had been. The blond's gaze was not accusing or suspicious, however. He was simply looking at Harry, a gesture that did not mean anything more than it was.

Harry wanted to say something, but he could not think of what, so he just sat there staring back at Draco. It was strange, something he had never done before, this simple, peaceful acknowledgement. It seemed that there was a whole jumble of things lately that were seeming odd. Although Harry should have felt awkward, and he did at first, the feeling melted back into the void from which it had come, leaving only a faint reminder.

"How are you feeling?" Harry finally asked, breaking the silence with the gentle utterance.

"Fine," Draco replied. He blinked once, twice, and then spoke again. "I suppose you're still curious from last night."

"A little," Harry admitted reluctantly. "But if you don't want to talk about it, then…"

"No," Draco said, shaking his head slightly, "I can handle it. What is it that you want to know?"

"Well, what you did last night, showing me your memories, is that normal?" Harry's eyebrow quirked upwards. "Is that something anyone can do? It seemed so…strange. No offence."

"None taken." Draco shrugged a little. "Truth be told, I didn't exactly want to show you that way, but it could not be circumvented. For someone who has never been under that type of memory stream, well, it can often times be traumatic."

"Memory stream?" Harry enquired. It was not a term he had heard of before, but it seemed appropriate.

"Showing my recollections to you through my own memory path waves," Draco explained. "It is somewhat of a special ability of mine. Only certain witches or wizards called psychosomatic conjurers can do it without some type of outside aid. I am one of them. This was one of the reasons Voldemort did not want to give up the Malfoy line; we have a history of psychosomatic conjurers in the family."

"What's so special about them?"

"They are a myriad of sorts." Draco twisted his lips as he thought. "Some of us can perform advanced magic as infants without wands, others can break into even Azkaban with a single spell. My own abilities are not quite so extensive, but they often change throughout time. I can influence others' bodies, make them think things that never happened, and no magical trace is ever left behind. It is like the Imperius Curse in that I can govern the person I cast on, but it could never be linked back to me as the person has no idea that I am there - everything appears to be by their choice. It is very subtle.

"Another thing that I am good at is spell seeing; that is I can actually plot out a spell's magical pathways like someone would see a three dimensional road map. I can break a spell or twist it into a curse, much like how a jewellery maker can weld a ring, without needing to cast over it or cancel it out. Magic is energy - you just need to know how to see and manipulate it."

Harry took advantage of the pause as he mulled over what Draco had just said.

"So, you could be inside my head making me do things right now?" Harry said aloud.

"Yes," Draco answered genially. "But do you really think I am?"

Slowly, Harry shook his head. "No. But this…in your memory, I can hear someone inside your head. If you specialise in mind magic, how did he do that?"

"Well, you see," Draco admitted, "I never said that we had unbreakable mind barriers. Most of us have anything but. Due to the nature of our extreme connection with magical energy, we cannot shut ourselves off to it, even for our own safety. Being a psychosomatic conjurer is both a gift and a hazard."

"So if I wanted, I could break into your mind?"

"Right now, probably. I'm still in mental exhaustion from sending everything to you last night. What I meant was that if someone who had the ability was hell bent on breaking into my mind, I would have very little defense. It is because of how weak our mental resistance is that the after-effects are so devastating."

'So that was what they were doing to him.' It dawned on Harry. 'They were traipsing their magical feet all over his brain. But he never showed even a hint that he was suffering so much.'.

Harry did not realise that he had spoken out loud until Draco answered him.

"I did not show it because I had been trained not to do so. When it gets rammed into you enough times, it becomes a reflex."

For a second, Draco's eyes became cold and distant. Then he seemed to come back to himself, and they melted again.

"…It has been hard for you." Harry's statement was not meant to gain an answer; he simply wanted Draco know that he acknowledged him.

Draco smiled faintly. "Yes," he said carefully, "but hasn't it been so for everyone at some point?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak when the small tinkling of pendulum chimes told him that it was now eleven o'clock.

"We should get up," Harry sighed reluctantly. "I'm pretty sure McGonagall was going to swing around sometime today. She and Ed were going to finish up at the house."

Draco's eyes dimmed for a second. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. The boggart."

Harry lifted the corner of his mouth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Don't be. It brought us this far, didn't it?"

This earned Harry a quirky smile and shake of the head as Draco flipped off the covers and stood. As Harry followed his lead, he saw a small flash of creamy skin between Draco's shirt and the waistband of his pyjama trousers when Draco stretched.

"I think I'm going to go take a shower." Draco said as he let his arms fall back to his sides. "I could use it after cleaning that filthy mansion yesterday."

"Yeah, me too," Harry agreed, his eyes not leaving Draco's form. 'Stop it,' he scolded himself. "You go ahead and use it first."

"Thanks," Draco murmured as he headed toward the bathroom. "I won't take very long."

"Take your time," Harry said, and Draco nodded before shutting the door.

The sound of the showerhead spray pattering on the porcelain a moment later was ridiculously soothing.

---------

McGonagall and Ed ended up arriving a couple of hours later. Harry was just drying his hair when he heard the knocking on the door and knew it could only be them.

"Good morning," he greeted as he opened the door. "Come in."

He gestured toward the chairs in front of the window, and they both sat. Draco was in the bathroom brushing his teeth and would probably be out within a few minutes. Harry rustled his hair one last time with the towel he had in his hand before he dropped it to his side.

"How is Mister Malfoy doing?" McGonagall enquired aptly, skipping straight past the usual greetings. Her hands were folded atop her robed knees. Her family ring, an golden eagle in mid-flight over a crest of arms, caught the light and reflected it against the wall.

Harry glanced at the ajar bathroom door before he answered.

"He's okay now."

Both McGonagall and Ed looked somewhat doubtful, and Harry knew he would have to say something. For some reason, Harry did not want to share what had transpired between them the night before - it seemed too personal - but he wanted to lay their worries to rest.

"We…had a talk," he settled finally. Harry figured it was a safe, yet vague enough explanation. "He told me about it. I don't want to go into details, but he's all right now. I promise."

Harry's voice was friendly but firm, and after a few moments the unsure expressions faded off of the two witches' faces.

"Well," Ed finally broke the silence, "that certainly is good to hear. If there was anyone who needed someone to unload on, it was that poor boy."

Harry could not have agreed more, but before he could voice this, McGonagall said, "If you are both feeling up to it, the house is ready, and you can move in anytime you wish."

"Yes," Harry said, "I need to check with Draco, but I think we're good to go."

McGonagall raised her eyebrow at Harry's use of Draco's given name, but she wisely did not comment.

"Alright, then," she said carefully. "We'll give you some time to talk it over, and then -"

" - That won't be necessary." Draco had come out of the bathroom and stood in the doorway. "We are ready to leave. The only problem is the luggage."

"The house elves can take care of that," McGonagall replied matter-of-factly. "It will be transported by Floo to the house. If you want to take any valuables with you now, however, that is fine."

Draco shook his head. "I'm good." He looked over at Harry. "What about you?"

Harry shook his head. Draco was acting so much more freely with the headmistress and Ed now; perhaps there were more advantages from sharing with him last night than Harry had thought.

"Well, it seems all is in order. Same plan as yesterday, lads." Ed smiled as she stood.

With a nod, Harry and Draco retrieved their cloaks, and the group went underway.

---------

All too soon, the great façade of number twelve, Grimmauld Place was towering above Harry's head. With a slight feeling of déjà vu, Harry walked up to the peeling front door and opened it with Draco at his side and the two elder witches to his rear.

As soon as they walked into the front hall, he could see a difference from the day before, even after they had cleaned. The long corridor was no longer dark and gloomy but filled with a floating, healthy light. The walling and floors, though still faded and a little worse-for-wear, were clean and spotless, giving the house an almost welcoming aura.

"Wow, you guys did a really good job," Harry commended as he grinned at their thorough handiwork.

"Oh, it wasn't all us," Ed waved it off with her hand. "Your friends helped out a lot, too."

"Who?"

Harry's question was unwittingly answered when into the room walked Hermione with Ron close at her tail. The brunette instantly beamed a smile over at Harry when she caught sight of him. She set down the small bouquet of wildflowers she must have picked from the garden out back and hurried her footsteps.

"Harry!" Hermione greeted happily. "How are you?"

Before Harry could react, Hermione flung her arms around him and gave him an affectionate hug. Out of habit, Harry's arms closed around her small waist and hugged her back.

"I'm fine," Harry smiled. "How are you and Ron?"

"Oh, we're fit as fiddles, mate," Ron grinned. He, too, gave Harry a hug before stepping back. "Well, you certainly look better. Finally ate something, eh?"

"Hah, yeah. Hogwarts' cooking does that to you," Harry said amiably before glancing back at Draco, who looked a little ill at ease and unsure of what to do.

Harry ignored the subtle looks of surprise on his friends' faces when he turned, grabbed Draco by the crook of his elbow, and tugged the blond wizard up alongside him.

"Draco's been doing okay, too," Harry said, introducing his companion to the couple.

At first, Hermione and Ron both were dismayed at how friendly Harry was acting with Draco. However, Hermione soon recovered, being the well-mannered woman that she was.

"Oh, y-yes," Hermione stammered. While she was trying, she was having a hard time thinking of what to say. "Well, that certainly is a good thing. How are you…Draco?"

She glanced up at Harry as if to ask 'is this okay?' before he nodded. Beside him, Draco remained oblivious to what the friends had communicated.

"I'm fine, thank you," Draco answered in a soft, nearly contrite voice.

Hermione appeared almost startled at how mannerly Draco was being before she smiled at him. With a discrete nudge to his side from Hermione, Ron spoke up.

"So…Malfoy," Ron began, taking his time as he struggled to make conversation with a person he had only called Ferret for the past few years. "Er…the house…um…"

The gods bless her, Hermione swiftly plunged in and mended the discussion before the silence became too awkward.

"I think what Ron is trying to say is that the house looks lovely," the brunette interrupted quickly.

Harry sent her a grateful smile as Draco looked at her in visual surprise. As Draco thanked Hermione, Harry was delighted to see the blond actually smiled somewhat timidly at her. Hermione, for her own part, seemed pleasantly pleased and smiled wholeheartedly back. Perhaps this was not going to be so bad after all.

"This isn't it all, now," Ed grinned cheerfully. "There's still quite a few floors left to look at. Not quite what I'd call 'home sweet home', but it's getting there."

"It really is spectacular." Harry smiled warmly. "Thanks a lot. We appreciate it."

"Then, let's tour around the newly cleaned house, shall we?" McGonagall stepped up to the group and invited them along.

In the end, Harry and Draco did not get a single minute alone to synthesize their thoughts over their new home as they walked through room after gigantic room. It was beginning to get dark from the muddled, bluish light that began to flood the house through the windows. After McGonagall and Ed had left into the second hour, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco had settled down at the large, circular table in the middle of the kitchen, upon which a large, piping teapot and a plate of half-eaten biscuits rested after they had all had their share. Draco, predictably, had not eaten much in front of their guests, and Harry made a note to make him eat a snack before they retired for the night.

"_Dico vicis_," Hermione recited. The wispy face of a clock appeared from her wand and floated before her. "Well, it looks like we ought to be leaving. It's nearly six o'clock."

Ron pushed his plate away and yawned. "Yeah, this has been entertaining and all, Harry, but the little lady is still making me do a couple of things at school. Plus, McGonagall isn't going to let us stay out much later. We're lucky we even got to come today."

"Well, we _are_ still seventh years, Ron," Hermione reminded him, sounding an awful lot like Mrs. Weasley as she did so.

Harry stood when the clock in the front hall, a few minutes early, began to ring. It was a rather morbid tune, like something out of a funeral home. Harry made another mental note to get it changed.

"The Floo powder is over by the grate if you need it. In the red flowerpot." Harry pointed toward the healthily roaring fire behind them.

"Oh, yes, thank you." Hermione, also, stood and smiled. Her tawny eyes twinkled and reminded Harry of gilded amber in the firelight. She really had become a beauty while he had been away. It was no wonder that Ron was infatuated with her.

She and Ron both thanked Harry and Draco for their hospitality as they headed towards the hearth. Just before she threw her handful into the blaze and right after Ron had disappeared, Hermione turned around and smiled at them.

"Hey, Draco," Hermione called.

Harry looked to his left where Draco was standing, faintly apprehensive at being singled out.

"Yes?" he replied uncertainly.

"You made the right choice," she said enigmatically with that undying sparkle still in her eyes. "Just remember that."

Three seconds later she, too, vanished into the flames, and Harry turned back to Draco, who had a contemplative look scrolled across his features.

"What was that about?" Harry demanded.

Draco merely shrugged and smiled faintly to himself. "Maybe…she is not so bad, after all."

Harry tried to understand the exchange but ultimately gave up.

"Forget it," Harry said. "It's getting late. Wanna check out our room before it's time to sleep?"

"Oh, that's right," Draco mumbled. Obviously, he was trying to sound like it was nothing, but Harry could tell that he was still nervous over the Boggart.

"They removed the cabinet. They told me," Harry reassured Draco.

Draco nodded absentmindedly as he gave the motion to start walking towards the door.

"Oh," Harry breathed as he remembered one more thing that McGonagall had told him, "I had forgotten to tell you. Apparently, McGonagall and Ed could only find one bed that was usable here. The rest had been gotten rid of when the Order started using this place, or the valuable ones were placed in storage. They said that we could change the bed once another two were brought out of storage."

Draco did not say anything.

"Though it's a large bed, so, you know, it shouldn't be too bad…" Harry prompted the conversation then left off to wait for Draco's answer.

Draco merely glanced to one of the nearby darkening windows, not making eye contact.

"Alright," he responded neutrally after a moment.

As they began ascending the long, winding stairs to the second floor, Harry wondered whether or not McGonagall and Ed had made any major changes to their room or not. He doubted it, but then one never really knew with those two.

When Harry opened the door, however, he immediately felt at home.

It was dark in the room, lit only by chilled, clear moonlight that spilled through the series of windows. The wooden floor was not only cleaned but waxed, too, and the windows were shaded subtly with sheer, gauzy curtains. The carved, white marble fireplace that they had found the day before at the other end of the room beheld a large, wrought silver mirror above it, much like the one that had been in the Room of Requirement but significantly larger. A silver grate sat in front of the gaping hearth to close it off. The sizable crystal chandelier that hung suspended in the middle of the room was sparkling with the cool light that reflected off of the mirror.

In front of the windows to Harry's frontal left, there sat two green, upholstered armchairs; in between them sat an elegantly carved wooden table and antique brass oil lamp. Three bookcases full of both wizarding and Muggle classics rested in successive intervals between the windows. Several other articles of furniture dotted the room, but all lent their own unique appeal to the gentle, aristocratic atmosphere. There were no paintings on the walls yet, but Harry was undeniably certain that Draco would remedy that problem within time.

Then, at the far end of the room, sat a large canopied bed raised up on a wooden platform with two steps. It was obviously meant to be the beauty of the room. The woodwork of the bed frame itself was unquestionably exquisite, carved into a manner of delicate flower stems and ornate swirls, but it was the cloth that won the prize. As Harry finally moved from his gaping position near the door, he ran his fingers along the beautifully woven fabric as Draco watched him with a small smile. His eyes took in the intricate pattern of soft gold and lovely crèmes that formed a map of fairy tale lands and rising mountains across a plane of pastel green. The draping, heavy canopy above that rested on the support of the solid bed posts was an exact replica of the duvet. Across from the bed was a set of twin chiffoniers.

The room looked and felt like something out of the nobility and an age that had long since past, an age of beautiful faces white with arsenic powder, golden corsets, and delicate masquerades at ballrooms filled with chocolate and wine. However, there was something about it that calmed Harry completely, giving him a sense of tranquillity that he rarely felt nowadays.

"Wow…" was all that he could say.

Draco chuckled faintly. "You can say that again." He shook his head lightly. "I didn't think that they would go through all of the trouble of actually finding heirlooms like these when they could merely conjure up replacements like they had with most of the other rooms."

"Heirlooms?" Harry repeated, looking over at Draco in the moonlight.

Draco nodded. "Yes. The furniture in this room is antique, probably as old as anything at the Malfoy Manor and most likely just as valuable. And this coverlet," he trailed his fingers along the fabric, "while no doubt ten times as durable as cotton, is almost certainly older than several generations of my family."

Draco turned back to Harry.

"It was probably a wedding gift, judging from the amount of sheer effort put into it. Wedding gifts are always the best because pureblood families like to show how much money their families have and impress their newly acquired relatives with their lavish spending," Draco explained. He stopped for a second before pointing to the fabric. "You see how the colouring is faded, however? It was likely very vibrant when it was new. But I prefer it this way."

"Why?" Harry asked, confused but genuinely curious. He was amazed at how much Draco had inferred simply by seeing the quilt. He had never really thought about things like that before.

For a second, Harry was caught by the utterly unguarded smile Draco gave him as he said, "Because it shows that it was used. And if it was used so much, it must have been loved."

Harry laughed a little as he shook his head in wonder. "You know…never mind."

"What?"

"No, nothing." Harry smiled. "Now, I think you need to eat something more. You don't like eating in front of other people, I take it?"

As Draco shook his head and began speaking, Harry pressed his hand into Draco's back and led him out of the door and back downstairs.

-----------

When they finally did get to bed, Harry reflected back on what Draco had said about the quilt. He glanced over at the sleeping man and could not help a smile that he was quickly becoming accustomed to appearing from spreading across his lips.

"Draco Malfoy…you surprise me at every turn…" Harry murmured before he timed his breath with Draco's and, in minutes, fell asleep to the feel of enveloping warmth.

**End of Chapter Eleven.**


	12. Some Things Speak Better In Silence

**Title**: System Discordia  
**Author**: Eris Mackenzie  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.  
**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.  
**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

**A/N**: -cough- So, a new point is addressed. Actually multiple points are addressed but you don't know that yet! Also, this chapter just built a new plot twist off of the ground from one little line that my brain kept instructing my fingers to type. I really do love my brain sometimes.

Also, I'm uber sorry for not having this out earlier! I looked at the last time I updated and nearly died of shock. I'd had no idea I hadn't updated for so long, honestly! . I know, I know! BAD ERIS! -hits self- Also, I don't particularly like this chapter…it's too damned short for all the stuff packed into it. It's poopy. Yes. Poopy. T.T

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**Chapter Twelve: Some Things Speak Better In Silence**

_Under every social skin there lurks some barbarism. -Eugenio Maria de Hostos, Obras Completas_

----------------

The next day, Draco was sitting at the kitchen table when he suddenly lowered the book he was holding and said out of the blue, "Why did you act like that yesterday?"

Harry, caught totally unaware standing in front of the counter across the room, turned to glance at Draco from the sandwich he was making for lunch.

"What?" he asked, brow crinkling in confusion as he looked over his glasses at Draco.

Draco looked at him with a strange sort of knowing in his eyes. Harry had a feeling that he already knew the answer to his question but wanted to hear the reply nonetheless.

"When Granger and Weasley were here, you were acting odd. You were trying to act happy and cheerful, but…" Draco shook his head, "it didn't look like that to me."

Harry went stock-still, barely breathing. "Oh, really?" he asked in a neutrally rigid voice.

"Yes," Draco answered, still studying him with the same expression. "Like I said, you were acting normal around them, but underneath it you were uncomfortable. Why?"

"What do you mean, _why_?" Harry snapped unconsciously. He was not even angry or irritated; he was more unnerved at the fact that Draco had seen through him so clearly when no one else had.

"Are you fighting?" Draco asked calmly. "Or, is it because you left Hogwarts?"

Harry could barely keep the shock off of his face; how was Draco so close to the truth? Did he know it already? Better yet, _how_ did he know?

"How-how did you…?"

"Well, it doesn't take a genius," Draco snorted. "Obviously you don't go to Hogwarts anymore since you're here instead of in classes. Those presumptions are the only plausible two. At least, the only _likely _two. There are a number of others, but I doubt that they would be right from your reaction."

"But still," Harry countered. "I mean, okay, the first one is a given since I no longer attend school. However, the last one, the fighting part, was a bit of a jump, wasn't it?"

Draco merely shrugged and raised his eyebrows in a near bored manner. "Well, it was just a guess. I suppose it's because I've been watching you so much over the years that I've somewhat memorised your body language."

Harry blinked a few times, his face blank. "You've…been watching me…?" Harry said suspiciously. "For years?"

Draco scoffed. "Oh, don't look so surprised, Potter. It's not like I wanted to; it was orders."

"From whom?" Harry asked before his brain had time to stop himself. As soon as the question left his mouth, he could have hit himself.

Draco looked at him, flabbergasted. "Merlin, you really…do I actually have to answer that?"

If anymore blood rushed to his head, Harry was sure that it would just start gushing out of his ears soon.

"I…er…sorry," he said in a rush, blushing furiously. He was so startled that he nearly had to do a retake when he suddenly heard something he never had before - Draco laughing. The former Death Eater was actually quietly chuckling away on the other side of the room. It was so foreign to see Draco's frowning mouth split in a grin that Harry was stopped in his tracks.

"What?" Draco said defensively a moment later when his personal hilarity had died down.

Harry just shook his head, his lips twisted into an amused smile. So, even Draco could laugh. He turned back to the counter and rested his hands on the edge, hunching his shoulders, before he swung around, strode across the room, and sat down facing Draco.

"Back to your original question, both of your guesses are right, I suppose," Harry sighed. He studied the small peonies that Hermione had brought over the night before that were now in a thin, porcelain vase on the table. "I don't know; both of them were against me leaving, Hermione moreso than Ron. She felt like I would be wasting myself if I didn't graduate and that leaving then would be a stupid decision. I can understand why she thought that, but I also knew that I couldn't stay. I just couldn't. Ron just wanted me to stay because I'd be closer to them, somehow safer. I understand that, too."

"But you still couldn't stay because you had to do something, fight yourself, right?" Draco said as if it were fact.

Harry nodded after a moment. "Yes," he replied slowly. "For a while after I had left, we owled each other regularly, nearly every day. But then after that, we…didn't so much anymore."

Harry ended the last sentence lamely; he did not want to admit that it had been mostly _his_ fault, that _he_ had cut off communication, because let's face it, the less people one is attached to, the better, right?

"Now it just feels awkward sometimes, like I don't know what to say to them to keep the conversation going. I suppose it can't be helped, though. Mostly, I try to act like everything is fine to keep them from worrying about me. They already have enough to think about as it is."

For a moment, Draco was silent, then he nodded several times slowly.

"That's what I thought," he murmured, proving Harry's earlier assumptions correct. He must have slipped back into his own thoughts because the wizards lapsed into silence.

"Um, so, are you hungry?" Harry asked quickly, breaking the weird hush that had fallen over the table. He stood up and pushed his chair back into place before waiting for his answer.

Draco started to shake his head, then thought better of it. "A little," he admitted. "I haven't eaten since about 8 o'clock this morning."

"Didn't you only eat a slice of toast?" Harry recalled.

"Yeah," Draco nodded. "I'm not a big eater in the morning."

"Or, any other time, apparently," Harry half-joked. Draco did not say anything, so Harry walked back to the counter and his half-made sandwich to resume cutting up slices of tomatoes.

"So what would you like?" Harry called over his shoulder.

Draco shrugged then said, "Whatever you're having, I guess."

"One ham sandwich coming up," Harry said good-naturedly. He finished up both of their sandwiches and set them on the table to grab the chilled lemonade he had made twenty minutes previously.

"This is good," Draco complemented softly after he had taken a bite and swallowed.

"Thanks," Harry replied.

After their short exchange, their conversation dwindled and died just as quickly. They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

Just as Harry was beginning to clear his plate and Draco was still eating his sandwich, Harry heard a tap on the window to his left.

Frowning in confusion as he saw it was a Ministry owl, Harry immediately stood and crossed the room. The barn owl dropped an envelope in his hand quickly before it took off again without bothering to perch and rest. Harry looked down at the cream-coloured envelope as he shut the glass pane. The envelope was heavy and richly textured, and he sighed as he saw the familiar, scrawling '_H. Potter' _addressed to him on the front. It was from Christoffer Grigore, his associate at the Ministry.

Draco looked up as Harry sat down in front of him but kept silent when Harry opened the letter. Immediately, Harry began to read.

_Harry,_

_Recently, I came across something startling. I think it's rather significant, in fact it could be the most important find we have seen. I will not write about it in this letter, but we must speak soon. Be at your kitchen fireplace at 12 o'clock tonight. It's urgent._

_Sincerely,_

_C._

As Harry finished the letter and sat it down carefully, his stomach began to flutter in excitement. Obviously it was very important, or Christoffer would not have bothered to write to Harry about it.

"What's that?" Draco asked with disclosed curiosity after Harry had set it down.

"A letter from one of the people who don't hate me at the Ministry," Harry replied, still contemplating at high speed about what Christoffer could have found.

"Oh?"

Harry looked over at Draco's cue for more information. "Apparently, he found out something important about the…uh…erm…"

Should he tell Draco? Harry thought uncertainly, biting his lip as he did so. Honestly, he did not see the harm, but still…

At Harry's prolonged silence, a quick shadow passed over Draco's face, and Harry knew Draco had guessed all too well his line of thinking.

"It's alright," Draco suddenly announced in a chilly voice, suddenly feeling very distant. "You don't have to tell something important to a traitor."

Harry frowned at Draco. "Whoever called you a traitor?"

Draco shrugged carelessly. "That's just who I am," he said.

Harry did not know what to say, and Draco did not want to say anymore than he had. Harry just watched as Draco abruptly stood (he was done with this talk), grabbed his plate from the table, and walked past Harry, disappearing out of the brunet's peripheral vision. A few seconds later, Harry could hear the tap running as Draco rinsed his dish. After several seconds, the water stopped, and Draco strode to the exit to the hallway before hesitating at the doorframe.

"I'm…going to do some more reading," Draco said quietly. Harry could just see the profile of his face past his shoulder. He did not bother waiting for Harry's answer before he continued on, leaving Harry sitting in the same position staring after him.

"Well…" Harry sighed about five minutes later as he shook his head bemusedly. "That was not how I wanted my afternoon to turn out."

The light on the sunflower dishes was interrupted for a moment when a silhouette, a shadow of a bird or a tree branch, swished over and blocked out the sun shining through the window. Harry realised a second later when it did not go away that it was a cloud. It looked like it was going to rain.

--------

Quite a few hours later, Harry was exploring yet another room. Despite the fact that he had spent a majority of time before residing temporarily in the mansion, and that he had had his memory refreshed whilst helping McGonagall and Ed clean, there were still many rooms that he had not known even existed. Such as this study he was in right now.

Obviously, it was one of the business rooms from back when the Black family had been prominent in the wizarding communities. Harry nudged open one of the desk drawers (many were locked, and Harry had yet to find the keys) and promptly sneezed as a wave of dust wafted from the contents inside.

There was a stack of papers, magical instruction manuals that looked like they were from the 1800s, bottles, and various knickknacks. Harry sorted through some of the trinkets; he jumped back when one of them snapped at him, but it turned out just to be a mechanism that had been triggered in what looked like a set of wooden teeth. Strange, Harry thought with a soft smile.

He picked up a vial of long since dried liquid that had turned hard and black after countless years. When he uncorked it, however, he found out that the noxious smell that infused many potions had not dissipated whatsoever.

When he bent to replace the bottle, a fleeting golden glint flashed in the corner of Harry's eye, trapping his curiosity instantly. For a moment he looked about before he caught sight of a table to his left against the wall and near the window that was laden with a number of old photographs, large, small, and others in-between. The table was dusted with a fine layer of grey as were the photo frames and the carefully knitted and forgotten doily gone crisp beige on the edges with age. For some unknown reason, Harry was unexpectedly and heavily aware of a sense of nostalgia, not his own, but perhaps someone else's.

As he walked closer, he again saw that glided flash from one of the pictures on the end of the table, one of the few in the cold blue and stormy light that had somehow slipped past the crack in the curtains. He picked it up gingerly, rubbing the dirt coating the glass to reveal the images beneath.

The photo was curiously Muggle, unmoving, delicately coloured in rose pastels, and cracked, showing an unsmiling family in wizarding garb reminiscent of early nineteenth century Muggle clothing. A husband stood in the rear, staunch and straight-backed, his dark hair slicked back to a ponytail at the nape of his neck. For all of his expression, he could have been the epitome of stone. The wife seated in front of him was beautiful, pink-cheeked and soft white, but her corset strings held her back in more ways than one. Her unsmiling face bespoke something akin to sadness, regret, bad decisions and worse mistakes. Or, maybe Harry was just reading too far into it.

The children stood on either side of their mother and in front of their father. The eldest, a dark-haired and surly looking boy, was frowning, clearly already taking in his father's footsteps, but his younger, flaxen brother was looking at the camera with the strange sort of naïve wonderment that every child used to know still alight in his eyes. It was this child that caught Harry's attention. The boy took after his mother, all fair skin, light eyes, and chubby cheeks, but bore absolutely no resemblance to the rest of his family.

Harry set the photograph down and skimmed through a few others before he saw one near the end that made him furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

"Draco?" Harry wondered aloud as he reached for said photo.

He attacked the dust with the edge of his sleeve just to be sure his eyes weren't tricking him, but no, he had been right. At least, he _looked_ like Draco. Harry stood, rooted to the spot, as he stared unblinkingly at the photograph. It struck Harry a moment later that the young man must have been the younger brother from the family portrait. Everything, from the smooth, slender face, the softly rounded lips, the thin nose, the pointed chin, was an exact copy. If not for the hairstyle (long and pulled back into a ribbon as his father's had been), the young man in the photo could have been Draco's twin.

But, wait, there was another similarity, Harry thought with a chilly finger playing piano against his spine. However, this was not in appearance.

The man's eyes, once alive and young, were cold, distraught with more pain and distress than one his age should have had. Bluish-purple bruises had dyed the skin underneath the young man's eyes (so much like Draco, Harry thought) that not even the powder delicately layering his face could cover it all up. He looked like he had seen too much of everything, been forced through a war killing children and wearing blood like an allegiance. He looked like he _knew_.

Harry flipped the frame over and pried open the back. _Draco Malfoy, 1832-1849_, it said on the rear of the photo. He had been seventeen years old when he died.

Overtaken by an alien and crippling emotion, Harry set down the picture and backed up, his eyes never once leaving the now-long dead man's grainy form. _So much like Draco_, Harry thought again. _That could have been him. Gods, they even have the same name._

"Harry?"

Harry's whole frame rattled as he whipped around to see Draco standing in the doorway. Yes, he had been right. There was that expression. It was identical. Something in him twisted. It was like gazing at a dead man.

Harry could not stop staring. After about a minute of silence, Draco began fidgeting.

"What…what are you looking at?" Draco asked, irritated, as he attempted to tilt his head out of such direct view.

"I…" Harry shook his head slowly, still studying the blond down to his every pore. "It's strange."

"What's strange?"

Harry did not answer him; he could only think of ways to differentiate between the two, to somehow prove to himself that they were not both the same person even though he knew it was already true. It was just so odd, so peculiar how alike they were. But they could not be, could they?

"…never noticed…."

Harry took a step towards Draco, then another and another until he was largely invading the blond's personal space. He could tell that he was making him uncomfortable, but when Draco tried to back up, he was stopped short by Harry's hand brushing along his temple.

"Wait…" Harry murmured, unseeing, his voice a form of liquid honey dripping past his tongue.

For a brief, shaking moment, his fingertips trailed down the sides of Draco's face. He knew Draco was watching him, unsure of how to react, but he hoped that the blond would not pull away. Draco's skin was cool to the touch, dry but soft underneath the pads of Harry's fingers, dipping beneath his cheekbones, slightly more rounded toward his jaw. The other boy might have looked like Draco, might have shared a name, an age, but Harry could not feel him as he was feeling Draco right now. This Draco was alive; he was _alive_. He did not understand why he felt such panic when he thought about this heart stopping, this brain cradled in the very skull he was holding turning to mush in the ground.

In surprise or perhaps instinctive response, Draco parted his lips when Harry's fingers traced along his bottom lip, and warm, moist breath spilled over Harry's skin. For a moment, that small balmy exhalation became a sanctuary soothing Harry's torrent of thoughts to a bearable level. Harry suddenly envisioned his fingers gaining a life of their own, slipping past those divided lips into the hot, wet cavern of Draco's velvet mouth, playing with the soft, surely agile tongue. Perhaps he would lick off the spit that would coat his fingers. What would it taste like? he wondered. Spicy? Sweet?

In sudden shock, Harry jerked back and away from Draco. A hot, deep blush filled his cheeks at his thoughts; what on Earth had possessed him to think that? He could not look at Draco as he struggled to compose himself, a nearly impossible task as that was.

"What were you just doing?" Draco demanded. His cheeks, too, were flushed but not red; instead they were a vivid pink.

"I-I don't know," Harry replied shakily as he drug his fingers through his hair. "I just, I just had to."

Well, that had come out weirdly, but in hindsight Harry knew it was true enough. Draco looked at him with an odd expression but did not comment. Harry was grateful because he did not know what he would have said if Draco had asked anymore questions.

"N-never mind. What are you doing here?" Harry asked. He tried to shake off his melancholy, racing thoughts. He had no more room in his head for any more.

His awkwardness must have showed because Draco neglected to point out the abrupt subject change. Draco crossed his arms, still wanting an answer but obviously knew it was not to be found - yet.

"I was looking for you," he replied. "You've been gone for nearly two hours."

"Have I?" Harry asked, scratching his head. "Sorry, I hadn't noticed."

Draco just stared at him for a second, then shook his head. "Hah, why do I even bother?" He looked around exasperatedly. "It's almost 8 o'clock. You missed dinner; you ought to eat. There's leftovers in the refrigerator."

"8 o'clock?" Impossible! He had only been in the room for maybe twenty minutes at the most; he remembered the sun had still been shining on the pictures. But, sure enough, when he looked over at the window, it was darkened navy.

"You found a picture of my namesake, I take it?"

Harry looked up in surprise and saw Draco jerk his chin in the direction of the photograph he had just put down.

"Yes," Harry answered. Although extremely embarrassed about the way he had reacted to the photo, he was still curious. "Who was he?"

Draco walked to the table and picked up the photo, replaced it in its frame. "He was born in 1832, just like it says on the back, in my ho -" Draco paused, "Well, Malfoy Manor. I suppose it's not my home anymore."

Before Harry could repute this comment, Draco went on.

"He was actually the first of the psychosomatic conjurers in my family, and one of the most legendary. It was said that he could have destroyed the very foundations of the wizarding world with a single breath, that he had somehow discovered the secret of earth magic. But," Draco shook his head, almost in bemusement, "for some reason, he never did. He was always saying something about a key. I remember my grandfather sitting me in his lap and repeating over and over again, 'The thing he lacks is the key, Draco, the thing he lacks'"

Draco scoffed but with a fond smile that Harry had never seen before. Draco was still holding the photo tucked between his palms, almost lost in his pseudo-reflection.

"Naturally, I wanted to reply, 'Well, of course, Grandpère, he needed the key, didn't he?'. ButI never did."

Draco turned around and faced Harry, still wearing that far-away, faintly affectionate look on his face. Harry wondered what he would have been like if he had been born in a different place, away from Voldemort and this bloody war. He wondered if they could have all been happy. Maybe. Maybe not.

"If I had been him," Draco said resolutely, "I would have destroyed the wizarding world while I could."

Harry looked at him in shock. "_Why_?" he exclaimed.

Draco gave him a queer look. "Because of what his family did to him." When Harry shook his head in confusion, Draco went on to explain. "You see, you must have noticed that he resembles his mother but not the rest of the family?" He waited until Harry had nodded. "Well, that's because they weren't blood-related."

"What?" Harry inquired, perplexed. "But isn't that man his father?"

Draco shrugged. "At that time and still today, at least in the wizarding world, everyone in society thought that, yes, while the youngest certainly did look a little off, he must still be his son, right? I mean, they were married, after all."

"…But?" Harry prompted.

"_But_," Draco said, "it was a deep family secret that the wife had, in fact, come from a long line of gypsy psychics that had roamed all throughout Romania and not the wealthy noble family that the Malfoys said she was. Her name was Ileana. Yes, she had magical capabilities beyond a Seer, which were just abilities of any normal witch or wizard, but in her culture that was a sign of the devil. So, she was cast out. Not much later, she met Argularis Malfoy, the father in that portrait, and married him, giving birth to three sons and a daughter, only one of which, Sylvester, managed to survive into adulthood. Then, she gave birth to Draco."

Draco paused for a second to gather his thoughts. Harry was intrigued. So, the Malfoy family was not as pure as everyone thought, eh?

"What was so strange about the child was that, until Ileana appeared with him one day swaddled in blood-stained linen, no one had known that she was anticipating a child, much less carrying one. She went through a grilling process by the Malfoy family, but they could not throw her out of the family - such a thing would be far too much of a disgrace for the Malfoy name. Just imagine, a Malfoy wife committing adultery, possibly stealing a baby? The very idea was scandalous. She never did say where she got the child, though."

"But, he had to have been hers," Harry interjected. "I mean, look at them, there is a clear family resemblance."

"Oh, I have no doubt that Ileana was his mother," Draco said lightly, "but his father is a different story."

"You mean she never told anyone who the father was?"

Draco shook his head. "Not a single soul. Who knows, maybe he didn't have a father. I don't think that will ever be figured out."

They were interrupted when the loud gong from the grandfather clock in the hallway sounded, breaking them from their conversation.

"Er, well," Harry cleared his throat after the last chime of the hymn had died out. "I think I'll go eat something, then."

"Mm," Draco hummed. "I'll…be around."

"Where?" Harry asked automatically.

Draco snorted. "Just around. The Linking Spell _is_ still in place, just extended to the perimeters of the house and its grounds. That I hadn't expected…but, the Ministry seems to have lost some vengeance this week." He began heading back to the door and started walking down the hallway. "Besides," he called back over his shoulder, "it's not as if I really have anywhere to go, do I?"

Harry let out his breath in a whoosh that caught his bangs. Absentmindedly, he noted that his hair was growing out of the neat cut it had undergone for the hearing. He would need it cut again soon. Draco had nearly reached the end of the corridor when Harry suddenly remembered how their conversation had started in the first place.

"Draco, wait!" Harry yelled as he jogged to the door and leaned out. "You never told me. Why would you have destroyed the world?"

Draco turned his head and smiled half-heartedly, a mewling, sick thing that was less like a smile than it was a grimace.

"Because…they killed the only person he loved, and then they killed him."

Harry could only stare in stunned silence and silent questioning as he watched Draco disappear around the corner, but Draco's words would echo in his head long after the last of his footfalls faded. Maybe sometimes families were not what they should be.

------------

It was pitch black when Harry felt the little vibration he had set on his watch to awake him. Though Harry had only been sleeping for a few short hours (he had gone to bed early that night at around 9 o'clock), he nonetheless felt as groggy as he did waking up in the mornings.

All that surrounded him was darkness, warmth, and such a scent that he knew could only belong to one person. As it was, that person was curled up, knees touching elbows in a foetal position, to the side of Harry. Sometimes Harry was still surprised to wake and find Draco there next to him. He was also afraid that he might get used to it. He had almost forgotten about the sour events that had lead them here. Almost, but they always fought their way back to the surface.

Harry slid as carefully as he could across the heavy linen sheets. As he slid out of bed, he cautiously tip-toed around the spots in the floorboards he knew were particularly squeaky. He grabbed his slippers and his robe and slipped them on as he headed towards the door.

When he was safely in the hallway, Harry began his descent to the kitchen, where Christoffer was going to channel him. For the umpteenth time that day, Harry wondered what it was that he could have come across. Well, he would find out soon enough.

The fire was already going when Harry got there; the house kept it roaring all night under some long forgotten spell. Harry dragged one of the table chairs over to the fire and sat, elbows in his knees, as he waited for the next five minutes to pass. He was grateful for the healthy, crackling heat as it spilled over his legs, warming everything from his feet to the tip of his nose.

Harry was caught off-guard when the fire started morphing, but he smiled when Christoffer's familiar face popped into view. The man looked tired as usual, even his curly bob of brown hair was starting to loose its body, but he managed to return Harry's grin. There were bags underneath his chocolate eyes.

"Hey there, Harry. How have you been holding up?" he asked.

Harry shrugged and replied, "As well as can be expected. I would really love to be able to help out more, but…well…I can't exactly leave whenever. And it's too dangerous to send word by owl these days."

"Aye," Christoffer nodded sagely. "That it is, which is why I've arranged for this firecall. Now, we only have a short period of time because of all the safety barriers and whatnot, so I'll get right down to it."

"Okay," Harry said, leaning forward a bit. "So, what is it that you've found?"

"Well…" Christoffer looked down, and Harry could hear the sounds of rummaging parchment for a few moments. "When we were on a raid on one of the old estate houses in Greenwich, some of the Aurors happened to find several documents that I think are particularly suspicious. There was one, however, that really sparked my interest."

Christoffer looked back up.

"It is incredibly ancient, from what we could decipher it's around 700 years old, dating back all the way to the 1300s. Measures were taken to preserve it, but some of the parts have been crumbled away or rubbed off. However, what got the team excited was this - the Dark Lord's Mark was on the back."

"His Mark? You mean, the Dark Mark?" Harry asked eagerly. Christoffer nodded. "But, if it's so old, how did the Dark Mark find its way onto it? Are you sure it was there originally?"

"Yes, we're quite sure," Christoffer replied. "That was one of the things we thought too, that it must be phoney. But, no, the ink dates back as far as the rest. We are looking into the possibility that perhaps the Dark Mark had another meaning before the Dark Lord came into being."

"Another meaning?" Harry mused for a second. "There's a good chance. I mean, as far as my knowledge goes, I don't think anyone has bothered to look." He paused for a moment. "What did it say?"

Here, Christoffer bit his lip. "Ah, see, that's just our problem; we can't read it. It's been encrypted with symbols that we've never seen before."

Harry's face fell. "And there's no way to crack it?"

"Oh, no, I didn't say that!" Christoffer explained hurriedly. "We have several people looking into ancient encryption algorithms as we speak. I'll be sure to relay back to you as soon as I get any information."

"About that…" Harry was going to say something else but was interrupted by the chiming of a clock both on his side and Christoffer's.

"Oh!" Christoffer looked a little surprised at the time; then again, they only had less than ten minutes to speak. "Well, Harry, it looks like I'll have to go in a few minutes. Now, I took the liberty of sending over a copy of the manuscript over to you. It was sent before I fire called, so the owl should be arriving shortly. Maybe you can make some sense out of it. Until then, tell Mister Malfoy that my family greatly appreciates what he did."

Harry was surprised. "Why? What did he do?"

"My own cousin was caught up in the Dark Lord's ranks, couldn't escape because of the Burning Ball, but thanks to Mister Malfoy he's now back at home, safe. Tell him I hope his trial goes well," Christoffer gave a sad smile. "I know he's in good hands."

"Oh," Harry answered softly. "I'll be sure to tell him. Good night. Be safe, Christoffer."

"And you, Harry, both of you be safe." The disjointed head bobbed back at him as his voice started fading.

Harry felt the urge to wave but was halted by the sharp tapping at his window.

As the last vestiges of anything but a fire faded from the hearth, Harry stood and padded to the window. Outside of the glass panes, a small Ministry standard owl was fluttering, a scroll of parchment clutched tightly between its clawed feet. Harry opened the window, and it promptly dropped its package into Harry's waiting hands. However, like most of the Ministry owls, it did not stop to rest and took off nearly as soon as it had arrived. Harry closed the window, noting the distinct chill that summarised the coming winter, and gazed at the pattern etched into the owl's feathers grow smaller as it swiftly disappeared and blended into the night.

Still standing stationary at the counter, Harry closed the curtains and began making his way back toward the door. He was tired and even now he was groggy but the excitement of the find flapped about in Harry's stomach like pecking birds. Using the dim light from the fire, Harry unrolled the parchment and squinted at the cramped handwriting on the note Christoffer had included.

_H,_

_I have arranged for a brief meeting at Hogwarts tomorrow afternoon at four p.m. I will explain more fully then. If you have any ideas, please tell me there._

_Sincerely,_

_C._

So, he was going back to Hogwarts so soon, was he? Harry sighed. It was inevitable, he supposed. Then again, it should not be too bad; he was only going to be there for the afternoon after all.

Harry set the note down on the table and stared at the unfamiliar runes on the copy before shaking his head. Like Christoffer had said, it was securely crypted. Though this put quite a damper on Harry's enthusiasm, it would not hold for long. After about twenty minutes of sorting through what he could remember of Hermione's lectures on Ancient Runes, he finally decided to take a second look at it in the morning. Perhaps then something would come to light.

When Harry had finally made it back into bed, he could not help but smile at the suddenly safe feeling. True, the fact that he knew he was getting attached to Draco scared him, but the knowledge that eventually he would have to give the blond back made him ache inside. It was strange, Harry thought as he began drifting off into sleep, but he needed to get as much out of this as he could.

There was a disconcerting, half-thought that trickled past him that Harry was going to miss Draco, but that was as faint as the dreams that would wash over him.

--------------

_Harry was drifting. He did not know how his feet were moving, yet had no sensation of touching the ground. This did not bother him in the least. His world was a vague cotton shine, but then it leisurely began to take form and solidify around him. He glanced down but he knew before looking that he would be able to see through himself. It seemed to make perfect sense; why should Harry question it?_

_Slowly, he became aware that he was floating through the corridors of the Black family mansion. He passed by the armoury on the third floor, a gallery of old and aged family portraits on the fourth, before heading back down the winding staircase to the second. Then, he was back in that study he had been in that afternoon. And standing there, next to the table, looking at a photograph of himself, stood the first Draco Malfoy._

_Harry floated in the doorway, knowing that this was not his time but far earlier, long before the miniscule speck of life that would be called Harry Potter had even been conceived. Here, everything was still as it should have been - lovely, aristocratic, and poisonous. Including the man who was now looking at him with such sadness in his eyes. Again that dreaded painful, squeezing feeling plagued Harry, but this time he reminded himself in time that this was not his Draco._

_It took Harry a moment to realise that the man was not looking _at_ Harry but _through_ him. Harry was confused, but as he looked over his shoulder, he caught the sight of another young man, soft brunet and sophisticatedly dressed, standing in the breach of the room. This newcomer, though Harry did not remember ever seeing him before, seemed familiar. He was handsome, yes, with a straight nose, clear blue eyes, a thick head of styled hair, and the latest trend in wizarding robes. Nevertheless, the concerned look naked on his face was possibly what drew Harry the most._

"_Edmund…" Draco Malfoy's voice was soft and elegant, like his predecessor's, faintly accented, but Harry had never seen, never felt such vibrations of pure, breaking grief as these. _

_There was a chill of icy breeze, and Harry's vision blurred for a second as the other man, Edmund, walked through him. Harry watched as Edmund strode up to Draco and gently cupped his face, stroking his fingertips along the other's lips as Harry had done to this century's Draco not so long ago. _

"_What is the matter?" Edmund asked gently, nearly whispering as he leaned in, pressing his lips in a tender motion across Draco's forehead. Draco closed his eyes and sighed, his expression hanging somewhere between pain, relief, and sorrow. _

"_The key…" Draco whispered. "The key. I have finally found it, and now they want it." He pulled back, not out of Edmund's embrace but enough to look him in the eyes clearly. "They desire the magic, and they will do anything they must to acquire it."_

"_The key?" Edmund asked, shock written clearly on his features. "But, that…how did they find out that you had deciphered the riddles?"_

"_She told them."_

"_Acina?" Edmund looked angry for a second. "I should have known."_

_Draco shook his head, then leaned against Edmund as if he were the only solid thing in this world. "You do not understand. They will do anything, Edmund…anything. They will forbid our relationship."_

"_No," Edmund said resolutely. "I do not care what the rest of society thinks of us. I will not let you go."_

_Draco shut his eyes, and Harry felt the edge of his heart begin to bleed as he saw the first tear falling from beneath his closed lids. Something flashed past Harry's mind, something he should have known that maybe he did not._

"_I am so sorry, Edmund, but you will have to."_

_-----------_

A few moments later, Harry's eyes blinked in the waking world, first once then twice. Then, he finally registered where he was. He sat there in the darkness of mid-night and thought hard, trying to remember what it was that he had dreamt about. It was something important, that much he remembered, but he could not think of anything else. Nothing but soft, murmured words and an obscure and heavy feeling of foreboding that Harry could not manage to shake.

Nevertheless, he did just that and curled up, unconsciously winding his limbs around the one next to him until they were as tangled as two babes in the womb. Then and only then he could sleep peacefully.

**End of Chapter Twelve.**

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**A/N: **So...review? PLEASE???? -desperate author-


	13. Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

**Title**: System Discordia  
**Author**: Eris Mackenzie  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.  
**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.  
**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light[Post-HBP

**A/N**: You know, it's strange when an author feels so sympathetic towards characters whose lives she could change in a second if she so wished. I actually was writing a scene and started wishing so vehemently that it would turn out happy but knew that it could not. Unfortunately, I am bound by the devices of my own plotline. It felt strange when I realised this, that a story could play out even against my own hopes though I am the very person writing it. I felt like a dual person for a bit. So very odd, and I have a feeling, quite universal.

I also looked through the last chapter and asked myself if I was on crack when I wrote it. Seriously. I didn't remember writing half of it. Do enjoy this one, though.

Oh, yeah, and random note: **Boyd Holbrook **(for those of you in the fandom who DON'T already know him) is absolutely the pinnacle of Draco, especially in his **Dior Homme **ads. However, **these pictures have my angsty Draco written all over it**. Unfortunately, every time I try to show the URLs, this site has to be an ass about it, so either leave me a review or a message if you want to know the ones I'm talking about.

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**Chapter 13: Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax**

_The heart ruptures, its toxins leach  
into the groundwater of blood and neurons.  
The muteness of cells is suddenly disrupted;  
now they won't stop chattering, replicating,  
and I in my sweaty bed, watching the spider cracks  
hover against the ceiling, ignore those cells  
as they spin and spin.  
Doctors become translators,  
tapping a Morse code on my skin, trying to decipher  
the language bumping through vessels and bones.  
Oh, heartbreak—such a fickle thing.  
Heartbreak is a squatter crouched in my kitchen,  
its eyes a glittery spark, finger over its mouth,  
hushing me,  
hushing,  
_hush_.  
–JLB _

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The water was cool on the back of Harry's neck.. He was leant with his forehead resting against the blissfully chilled shower tiles as the shower spray cascaded down the tired curves of his body. He had experienced some trouble sleeping, again, the night before, and his muscles were beginning to feel the strain. Already an all-too-familiar headache was starting behind his eyes that reminded him of his days skimping around seedy hotels for leads on Voldemort. Today was another such day, except he would be running about Hogwarts rather than another dingy room.

He breathed deeply in and out several times (he remembered from some obscure reference that more oxygen helped revive the brain) before sighing in one big stream of air. It felt good, like he was ridding himself of something more than carbon dioxide.

As he reached for the shampoo blindly with one hand, his head still turned in the opposite direction, he contemplated the rather grotesque design of this particular shower. The ebony, crimson, and verdant marble was ancient and unpolished, nearly cracking, having been morphed long ago into a Romanesque scene depicting various gods and goddesses lounging about. Their faces were virtually worn away from hundreds of years of sharply mean droplets chipping away the details, their fingers now nothing more than stumps. It might have been quite fashionable when it was made, but it was one of the less favourable bathrooms in Harry's opinion. However, it was also currently one of the few that were working and within reasonable walking distance. Though there was a washroom that was right across from his and Draco's rooms, there was a block in the plumbing that needed to be fixed. He made a note to get that done as soon as possible.

There was a poof as Harry was rinsing out his hair. He looked past the watery tracks dripping past his eyelashes at the smoky face of a clock he had magicked to time himself. 2:30 p.m., the clock's hands pointed. Harry sighed. He had been late waking up and now had to cut his shower short to accommodate it. Draco had been downstairs, already freshly washed and on his third cup of coffee, by the time Harry had finally trudged down, mussed and rubbing his aching back from having slept wrong. After half-heartedly scarfing down a couple of pieces of marmalade-smothered toast, he had studied the copy of the scroll Christoffer had sent the night before until his eyes had nearly rolled out of his head.

The air was colder than Harry expected when he shut off the shower head and stepped out of the stall. It hit him like a wave, encompassing his skin in a goosebump-evoking cocoon. He reached for the towel he had brought along with him and hurriedly dried himself off. He cursed when he realised he had forgotten to bring his clothes in his haste. Now he would have to walk through the drafty corridors in nothing but a towel.

Well, nothing for it, he thought as he pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway. It was quite comical the way that he practically flew back to their rooms, successfully stubbing his toe on the corner of an offending stand just outside of their doorway on the way there. His stupidity hit him as he hopped about on one foot cursing loud enough to wake the dead when he realised he could have merely Apparated back to the room.

"Good thinking, Harry, _good thinking_," he muttered darkly to himself as he rubbed his foot.

"…Are you talking to yourself?" came a sudden, amused voice.

Draco, Harry thought as he rolled his eyes. The blond must have heard Harry speaking and had opened their door. He was now leaning against it with a smug smirk on his face, arms crossed in a perfect semblance of snobbishness. Oh, the flashes of olden days.

"No," Harry drawled sarcastically. He was still massaging his toe. "I'm speaking to the garden gnomes out back."

"There aren't any gnomes out back," Draco stated matter-of-factly. "I take it you, also, enjoy freezing your arse off out here, too?"

"Oh, yes, I'm enjoying it immensely."

"Thought so. And your towel is slipping."

Harry reached around to adjust the knot holding the cloth loosely on his hips before he glared up at Draco. He stood straight after a second and swept past Draco into the room. His skin picked up a static tingle when his chest brushed against Draco's arm, his nipples shivering erect.

"Why aren't you wearing clothes, by the way?" Draco inquired bemusedly as he turned around and stared after Harry.

Harry opened the drawer closest to the top in the bureau close to their bed. "Nope, not this one," he mumbled as he reached for the next one. He found what he was looking for - a comfortable, light blue V-neck he had gotten a few Christmases ago - and threw it on the bed as he searched for his underwear and a pair of jean trousers.

"I'm not wearing clothes because I took a shower and forgot to bring them with me," he said as he finished gathering up his clothing, grabbing one of the few pairs of matched socks as he turned to where Draco was still standing by the doorway.

"Ah," Draco said just to confirm that he had heard Harry. He was fiddling with the hem of his black turtleneck as if to flick off a speck of invisible dust. His grey pressed pants had ironed creases in them. Sometimes Harry felt really inadequate when compared with the ex-Slytherin's wardrobe. Today, Draco smelled faintly of lemon starch.

Harry just rolled his eyes and gathered up his clothes in one arm, his brush and other toiletries in another.

"Well, I'll be back."

Harry was nearly to the door when Draco suddenly piped up, "Wait, I'll leave."

Harry blinked and turned around. That was slightly unexpected, being the first time Draco had offered to do something for him, even if it was small. He felt his lips transforming into a beginning of a victorious smile as Draco moved to exit the room.

"Uh, okay. Thank you," Harry said sincerely.

"No need to sound so grateful, Potter, honestly," Draco scoffed.

He strode the small distance to the door and was about to close it behind him when Harry abruptly blurted, "Why do you still call me that?"

Draco stopped and cocked his head; if he were to have been a cat, Harry was sure that his ears would have swivelled.

"Call you what?" he questioned curiously.

"Potter. Why don't you say my first name?"

"Oh." Draco faced him and shrugged, his right hand resting against the doorframe. "I don't know. It's just a reflex. Why, does it bother you that much?"

"Well…no, but it just reminds me of when we were in school," Harry said awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. Suddenly, he was keenly aware that he was not wearing his clothes. "I always hated the way you said it like I was something nasty on the bottom of your shoe."

Draco gave him an odd look then chuckled ruefully. "Well, alright, if you wish I'll call you by your given name…_Harry_."

He voiced the name in a sing-song voice, making Harry blush and feel a mite bit stupid for bringing up something so trivial.

"I still think your name is incredibly mediocre. I mean, who would have thought the Hero of the Wizarding World would be named something as commonplace as 'Harry'?"

Harry snorted amusedly and said, "You remind me of my aunt Petunia."

"_What_?" Draco looked scandalised at being compared to a relative of Harry's, especially a female relative. "Why?"

"She always said that, too. Well, not the wizarding part, but that my name was so ordinary. But it's not like yours is much better," the brunet pointed out. "Who names their kid 'Draco'?"

Draco rolled his eyes but did not argue the point.

"Oh, hurry up and get dressed," he exclaimed exasperatedly as he waved his hand in a shooing motion. "We're going to have to leave soon."

Harry grinned in victory but did not comment. "_Fine_," he droned in mock annoyance.

Draco left the room, and Harry was left staring at the spot where he had vacated, a peculiar, half-dream wave to his lips. He shook his head when he become conscious of the fact that he probably looked like a right idiot standing there in practically nothing and grabbed the clothes from the bed. The cold chose that time to come back full-blast, and he hurriedly shrugged on the assorted garments before his body could take in just how chilly it had gotten while prancing about in a wet towel.

He took a grand total of no more than five minutes to dress and finger comb through his damp hair. He guessed that Draco was waiting for him in the front hall, and he was right. As he walked down the stairs, it was to see Draco replacing the cloth in front of Mrs. Black's portrait.

Harry shook his head and said, "I don't understand how you do that. I've never been anything but polite to that woman, and she still shrieks her head off at me."

Draco turned, the right side of his mouth edged into a smirk, and shrugged. "The Black family has never liked Potters."

Harry's mouth dropped open into a gape. "What? What should that have to do with it?"

"Oh, come now, Pot-Harry," Draco caught his slip of the tongue as he condescended. "Pureblood families have stabbed each other in the back for as long as they've existed. They have a multitude of faces, one of which smiles and courteously socialises with each other and the other that gossips about the quality of the lace curtains."

"Ah…so that's where you get it," Harry stated without a trace of tact.

Draco nearly glared at him as he said rigidly, "What are you talking about?"

"See, now you're being obstinate," Harry replied, cocking his eyebrow at him. "You've always had more than one thing going on. Sometimes I get so confused because it's like what your face is showing and what you're feeling are at different ends of the spectrum. You might look like you are calm, but inside you're at war. I don't get it."

The air was decidedly tense when Harry finished talking. For several stretching seconds, Draco and Harry had a staring contest, then Draco's eyes dropped in defeat.

"It's almost 3:15," Draco said, changing the subject as he turned toward the door. "We should be going."

Harry sighed and frowned at Draco's lack of response, not that the blond saw.

"We might as well just Apparate from here," he suggested. "We couldn't before because the wards wouldn't have recognised us, but it should be fine now."

"Oh." Draco shrugged his agreement as he changed course and headed instead in the direction of the brunet. "I'm Apparating side-along, then?"

Harry nodded.

"Alright. Let's do this."

Draco reached out and curled his fingers around Harry's forearm. The brunet could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin layer of his jumper. He closed his eyes and pictured the small, usually abandoned alcove just on the edge of the forest across from The Three Broomsticks. For one vague moment, he wondered what would happen to those who did not have a good photographic memory; they probably would splinch themselves. As the image cleared and solidified, the arm that was not under Draco's grasp rose of its own accord and wrapped itself tightly around the blond's waist just a second before they were gone in an ear-splitting crack.

The hustle and bustle of business and people was all but a distant memory of happier times in Hogsmeade; Harry opened his eyes to an almost eerie quiet. As dampening as the both the atmosphere and the bewildered expression on Draco's face were, Harry was grateful for the lack of students and villagers this time. If someone were to have caught sight of an ex-Death Eater like Draco, there would have been havoc.

"Wow," Draco breathed to Harry's right. Though Harry had let go of Draco's waist, the blond's hand still remained, feeling utterly right and solid. "I hadn't known it was this desolate."

"Yeah," Harry replied, regret of the truth sighing through the undertones of his voice. His eyes scanned the area, then he began to guide Draco across the way to the battered front of the once-popular pub. "It's a bit frightening, isn't it?"

"Indeed…" Draco's answer was spoken so quietly that it was nigh impossible to hear him over the sudden wind that was picking up.

Harry noticed Draco was shivering and hastened their walking. Soon they would need thicker clothing; it would start snowing before long. Just before Harry knocked on the door, Draco's hand dropped.

For a moment, nothing happened, but then as it always did Madame Rosmerta's face came into view behind the guard on the riddled wooden door. Her eyes widened perceptibly when she recognised Draco, but she wisely neglected to comment there.

"Go to the back," she whispered. Her voice reminded Harry of crackling, smoked leaves crunching underfoot. He wondered if she had let up on her tobacco pipe yet.

They did as she instructed and trudged past the building to the open back door, where Madame Rosmerta was waiting.

"So I see the rumours were correct, Mister Potter," she spoke tersely upon seeing them. "You really did take him in."

She looked Draco up and down; her expression hung somewhere between disgust and grudging dislike. Something about it made a slow trickle of anger flow down Harry's spine. Beside the ebony-haired man, Draco shifted uncomfortably, his eyes locked on the long-dead tree stump beside the door. Harry could tell she was making him nervous and was about to say this when she saved him the trouble.

"Well, I can't say that I appreciate you bringing someone like him here. However, this was a request from the headmistress herself, so I will have to allow it. No one is in the private rooms on the second floor, but make sure nobody sees him. I have few enough customers as it is; I don't need to loose any more."

Harry stiffened at the unfamiliar, chilly tone of the pub owner's voice. Normally, she was very kind and warm, like a doting aunt, and always willing to help out those that she could. Since when had she become so hostile? He had never known her to sound so cold. He was about to voice his question when, again, someone beat him to the punch.

"We understand," Draco murmured quietly, resigned. "We promise not to let anyone see me."

"You'd better not," Madame Rosmerta snorted.

Harry felt a spike of indignation shoot through his brain at her words; the respect he had for her, while still there, had just lowered considerably. A discreet nudge to his side from Draco, however, brought him back to the present.

They quickly followed behind the pub keeper as she led them through a dark back hall. Harry caught snippets of how Hogsmeade used to be, laughter and glasses clinking and liquid splashing on the bar, as they passed the front room. A whiff of mouth-wateringly spicy rabbit stew that The Three Broomsticks was notorious for making made Harry's stomach growl.

A short way back, Madame Rosmerta stopped at the base of a small, rickety staircase.

"This will take you up to the second floor," she explained. "Just head down the corridor until you reach the third room from the main stairs. The fire is already going, and the Floo powder is in a vase on the mantle. Goodbye, Mister Potter."

With that, she turned and left, leaving Harry standing staring after her rapidly retreating form.

"I have never seen her act like that," Harry wondered aloud, resentment flavouring his tone. "How could she -"

"Come on, Potter," Draco said, ignoring Harry's comments as he began ascending the worn stairs. Harry tore his gaze away and traced the ex-Death Eater's footsteps.

"The name's Harry, and how can you just take that?"

Draco paused at the door at the top of the staircase and poked his head out. "What are you talking about? She didn't say anything particularly vicious." He pulled his head back then swung the door wide and stepped into the empty corridor.

Harry stopped for a second, staring at him with a frown marring his face. "But the way she said it was cruel, Draco," he refuted quietly.

"That was nothing, Potter -"

"- Harry -"

"- and you had better get used to it if you plan on being seen with me." Draco spotted the third door as Madame Rosmerta had specified and turned the knob. "A lot of people hate me. Some want me dead; the majority, actually. There is nothing neither I nor you can do to change that. It's easier just to accept it."

Harry felt a spark of annoyance mix with his anger towards Madame Rosmerta. He shut the door behind them. His voice grew a little louder in the afforded privacy of the room as he replied hotly, "Maybe I don't want to just accept it."

Draco sighed without glancing Harry's way and responded with a hard tone, "If you're smart, you will."

The vase that he picked up from atop the pitted hearth was carved jade. Two red dragons swirled about a flaming pearl. Harry remembered distantly that dragons were supposed to symbolise happiness and wealth or something like that. They did not seem to be doing a grand job.

Pinching off enough powder for the two of them, Draco turned to Harry, his hair and the wet of his eyes patterned flickeringly by the firelight.

"Come on," he said indifferently, "let's get this over with."

Draco moved to throw the handful of dust into the fire when Harry suddenly covered his fist with his own.

"I don't like just giving up," Harry said vehemently. He thought he saw a chameleon swirl through the icy iris of Draco's eyes, but it could have merely been a reflection off of the dancing arms of the fire. Draco wrenched his hand from Harry's grasp and looked at him angrily.

"Will you drop it?" Draco hissed, his sharp little teeth glinting in the light. "It's useless to argue about it. We're going to be late!"

"I don't care if we're late," Harry said stubbornly.

"It doesn't matter to me, so why should it bother you?"

"It bothers me _because_ it bothers you, whether you will admit it or not."

"Gods! Whatever," Draco snapped as he thrust the Floo powder into the hearth. Blazing, acidic green flared and painted the walls with furious aquatic watercolours. "I want to go."

Without another word in edge-wise, Harry found himself tugged flush against Draco. For half a second, the closeness of their bodies and the passionate look in Draco's eyes stole Harry's sense as a voice clearly designated, "Hogwarts!".

Instinctively, the brunet threw his arms around Draco just in time; a second later, and he would have broken more than one bone against the rapidly passing brick.

As was his custom, Harry was inclined to topple over when they reached solid ground, but as he had done before, Draco kept him grounded. When the billow of dust had settled at their feet, Harry felt Draco step out of the hearth. The swirl of cold air immediately rushed to the place the blond had left, and Harry opened his eyes to see Draco dusting himself off in what appeared to be one of the old teacher's lounges. Two mismatched and sagging couches that might have once been red slouched against the wall to their right; a broken table, four chairs missing their legs, and a suit of armour stood at random intervals to their left. There were two bookshelves that had long been void of their books on either side of the now cool fireplace.

"Where are we?" Harry asked, but not because he would not be able to find his way to the headmistress's office. He simply did not want either of them to suddenly walk out into a crowd of schoolchildren when they opened the door. He now wished that he had not given the Marauders' Map to Ron before he had left.

"Down by the dungeons," Draco answered matter-of-factly. "This used to be a study room in our fifth year. They closed it down in our sixth year because of the number of students taken out of Hogwarts. I expect a lot of rooms are like this now."

"Oh." Yes, Harry remembered quite a few places that had abruptly been vacated even around Gryffindor Tower. It was not a surprise to him to find that all of the Houses had suffered some suchlike losses.

"This area was pretty neglected even when it was used, so we shouldn't run into anyone down here," Draco commented, accurately reflecting Harry's thoughts. "There's a staircase just down the corridor, if I remember correctly, that leads right up to the fifth floor. From there, I'm sure we can find the rest of the way to McGonagall's office."

"M'kay." Harry bobbed his head and started towards the unpainted wooden door.

"Ah, wait, hold on!" Draco unexpectedly exclaimed right before Harry opened it. "There used to be a senile, old statue of Grendolynn the Dwarf across the hall that would start complaining at the top of his lungs about the noise of the students when they came out. Open the door really quietly and make sure it's either gone or not apt to start shrieking."

It turned out that Grendolynn the Dwarf had had his statue removed from the hallway (probably because of the noise), and they were able to safely make it up the stairs to the fifth floor. It was only three minutes to four o'clock by the time they had navigated their way to McGonagall's office.

Harry knocked on the door, and it opened without a hitch. He was greeted with the sight of McGonagall sitting behind her desk. The two other people who turned around included Christoffer and another man that Harry did not know dressed in the drab slate grey robes of the Special Translations And Numerology Decoding department of the Ministry, or STAND. Spread out on the desk was a large scroll, the original of the copy that Harry had left at home.

"Why, hello there, Harry," Christoffer grinned as soon as Harry had closed the door.

He stood and crossed the room, engulfing Harry with a bear hug. Though Harry was not the runt he had been in his previous years, Christoffer still stood a good head and a half taller than him, not to mention he greatly outweighed Harry's sinewy frame in sheer muscle. His robes smelled like scorched desert sand and were traditional Ministry standard. Curly, dark brown hair flopped in front of his eyes as he turned to look at Draco.

To his credit, he did not try to greet Draco in such a friendly way; instead he simply extended his hand and said, "Christoffer Grigore."

"Draco Malfoy," the blond replied in kind and grasped the other man's hand firmly.

It was a battle of the eyes as they stared unblinkingly at each other, almost as if testing. Harry's eyes flickered back and forth between the two of them before, finally, Christoffer dropped Draco's hand with a satisfied expression and gestured toward the two seats beside his own.

"Sit, please."

They took their seats, Draco on the far end and Harry next to the Ministry personnel.

"Now, Harry, Draco," Christoffer introduced, "this is Maxwell Snuffhorn. He's one of the top members of STAND. He's been helping to decode the manuscript."

For a second, Draco appeared surprised to hear the use of his first name but nodded graciously at the new addition. Harry greeted him, and then they were on their way.

"This is obviously the original document that we recovered from the estate houses. So far, we have figured out that the encrypt logy used is related to a branch of Ancient Sumerian Runes. Other than that, I'm sad to say, we haven't found anything. However, as Maxwell will tell you, the whole document, including the seal, is intact and genuine. The ink is from a rare type of Scarab beetle, whose shell is crushed and then mixed…"

Christoffer continued talking for about five more minutes concerning the components of the scroll. Harry listened attentively but was distracted, as was Christoffer, when Draco abruptly stood. His head was tilted as if in thought, his eyes fully focused on the document. He reached out with a fingertip to gently trace the paper then jumped back as if shocked.

"…I've seen this before," he muttered to himself, seemingly oblivious to the strange stares he was getting from the other inhabitants in the room, Harry included. "Sumerian? No, that's not right. These are Franco symbols…earlier than ninth century… Oh, what _was_ it?"

"Draco…? What are you doing?" Harry asked carefully as Draco abruptly grasped the fragile manuscript and turned it upside down. Slits of blond hair fell in front of his searching eyes. He was on to something, Harry could tell from the butterflies catapulting around his insides.

"Y-young man! Don't do that, you will damage the scroll! You can't handle it so roughly!" Maxwell Snuffhorn exclaimed nervously, jumping up out of his chair in anxiety. His long-fingered hands fluttered over as if to grab it off of Draco when the blond turned and glared at him.

"I can handle it whatever damned way I want," he snapped coldly. He turned to look at Christoffer. "Which estate houses did you raid?"

"They were in Greenwich," Christoffer answered, uncharacteristic confusion on his face. "Why?"

"No, the one you took this from," Draco demanded, nearly fisting the parchment. "It couldn't have been in Greenwich."

"What are you talking about? What do you mean?" Maxwell squeaked.

"What's wrong?" Harry spoke up, eyebrows crinkling in concern. Something about this was upsetting Draco. He was practically shaking.

Harry felt Draco's anger billowing in the recesses of his mind, caustic and bleeding. The magical tension in the room was noticeably rising; in a few more moments, it would explode. Take this as a cue, the brunet stood quickly and curled his hand around Draco's upper arm. The ex-Death Eater did not react, simply letting him take hold.

"We'll be right back," he said, turning toward the others.

"But you just got here -"

"We'll be right back," Harry repeated steely, his eyes glinting dangerously. The next person to argue with him would not end up happy.

"Maxwell," Christoffer soothed, pulling the irate Ministry member back into his seat. "Give them a few minutes. We have plenty of time." He looked back at Harry, his expression curious but controlled. "Go ahead. Take your time."

"Put down the scroll, Draco," Harry commanded firmly. Draco tilted his gaze up at him like a lost puppy, a strange type of anguish warring on his features. Though it took a second, he hesitantly dropped the parchment back down on the desk.

"Come on."

Harry led Draco back toward the entrance they had passed through less than ten minutes before. As soon as they shut the door, Draco tore himself away from Harry and rushed down the hall, his stride fuming and jerking.

"Wait, Draco!" Harry called.

As Draco got farther and farther ahead of him, Harry began jogging to catch up. An unexpected and strong tug from below his navel had Harry stopped in his tracks. He was staring at his stomach for any signs of an abnormality when he realised that the Linking Spell was reacting to Draco being so far away. He had nearly forgotten about it since it was extended to the Grimmauld Place and its grounds, not to mention that they had not gone anywhere much besides the Room of Requirement, which had been small enough to appease the spell. Now it was coming back full-force. Harry started to get nervous when he wondered what the Ministry would do if the Linking Spell became too agitated and shot off after the blond.

Finally, he caught up to the blond right outside of one of the abandoned boys' lavatories and dragged him into the washroom.

"Don't do that!" Harry nearly shouted when the door had swung safely closed.

"Let me go!" Draco replied furiously. His eyes were livid and, Harry was shocked to see, glazed over with a faint sheen of tears.

"Draco, tell me what's wrong," Harry said contritely at the look he saw. Draco flung himself away from Harry and agitatedly walked over to the sinks, presumably looking for a place to turn his back so that the brunet would not see his flushed face.

"Nothing," he said snappily. His hands shook as he turned on one of the brass taps.

"Don't lie to me. Even I can tell there's something wrong. I'm not _that _thick." Harry strode over to where Draco was running his hands under the cold mountain water and gripped his shoulders. Turning the other man to face him, Harry saw that the sheen had condensed into fat trembling ravines about to flow over.

This time, Draco did not attempt to remove himself from Harry's clutch. Instead, he turned his head, checks blazing hot and red, to avoid Harry's gaze.

"It's ridiculous. I shouldn't be so upset."

"Just tell me."

Rather than speaking, Draco just looked up at him, entrancingly wavering, and closed his eyes as his hands snaked their way up to either side of his face. Harry stood stiff for a second, unsure of what Draco was doing, before understanding beamed in his brain. In a pseudo take on a lover's embrace, Harry found his arms twisted about Draco's slender waist, pulling him inadvertently closer. Harry thought for an insane moment that Draco was going to kiss him when he leaned in, but he sighed deep when the blond merely rested his cheek against the brunet's own. Draco's skin was slick with moisture, baby soft.

Again, he felt Draco's presence sliding oh-so-phantasmagoric against the labyrinthine membrane of his mind before the brunet lurched ahead, trapped him, and pulled him in deep. He was familiar with this now. He could feel Draco's surprise at Harry accepting him so readily, but this did not stem the much more gentle flow of his memory stream.

Draco was small, still a child, sitting in his father's lap in one of the sprawling libraries in the Malfoy Mansion. Lucius was laughing, his hair tied back loosely in a ribbon, apparently telling Draco a story. A few strands of hair had escaped and curled about the frame of his slim face; for a second, Harry saw a distinct reflection of Draco in Lucius. He had never noticed before because of the stony and habitually cruel set to his features that was so often present, but Lucius was as handsome as his son; the only difference was Draco's more delicate visage as inherited from Narcissa. A cranberry light was reflecting off the thick velvet curtains around the room that reminded Harry of waking up in late afternoon in his bed in Gryffindor Tower.

The sound began to trickle in when Draco asked, "What's that, Daddy?"

He was pointing to a glass-covered stand, higher than his head, when he hopped off of his father's knees and scampered on over.

"Oh, that?" Lucius stood and followed after his son. "This is one of the most mysterious yet important possessions that the Malfoy family owns. C'est _Le Choix Cassé_. The Broken Choice."

"Really?" Draco's child voice perked in curious question as he stood on his tip-toes to catch a glimpse of the scroll.

Lucius smiled and picked up the youngest Malfoy around the waist to allow him to peer at the aged and yellowed parchment spread under the protective glass.

Draco wrinkled his nose, obviously disappointed at the lack of splendour, and complained, "But why? It's just an old piece of parchment. I like the swords in the armoury better."

"Ah," Lucius grinned indulgently, "but the swords do not tell past the passage of time, do they?"

Draco cocked his head and stared up at his father. "Huh?" he asked dumbly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, my father told me of something his father had once spoken of, long, long ago when he was barely your age. His father passed away when he was only nine years old, but before he did he gave him a scroll that had been passed down for years. No one knows where it originally came from before it suddenly integrated into our line in the early 1800s. When my father gave this to me for safekeeping, he told me what his father had said. 'When the clocks tick at the hour of zero and the wheels spin in insignia, the one with the power to see will understand.'"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Draco asked, obviously getting bored with the conversation.

Lucius chuckled faintly and set Draco down before ruffling his flaxen hair. "That's the question, isn't it? No one has figured it out yet."

"…Draco? Lucius?" Narcissa's softly inquiring voice floated through the open door proceeded by the gentle flapping of her dress. "Ah, there you are." She smiled quickly, her eyes lit on her husband and son. "The pianist recital will be starting soon. Surely you don't want to be late?"

"No, Mummy," Draco hopped away from his father towards his elegantly robed mother.

Her long blonde hair was pinned up with diamond-inlaid, silver combs into an overflowing updo. Her gown was exquisite and multi-layered, bodice cut low around the bosom and shoulders, and made of expensive wild silk dyed a powder blue to match her eyes. Harry took note that Narcissa and her son both shared the same outer ring of navy around their irises. Heavy teardrop diamonds hung from her small ears that refracted the light around the room. She smelled of warm musk and perfume.

As her son hugged her tightly about the middle, Narcissa laughed gently and pried him off.

"Now, Draco, you will wrinkle my dress. We cannot have that, can we?" When Draco shook his head, she gestured toward the door at an older maid wearing high-collared, black robes. "Go with Audrey-Claire and get cleaned up."

"Okay, Mummy," Draco grinned with a child's adoration up at his mother. "Love you."

Narcissa smiled gently (Harry could see where her son got it from) and said, "I love you, too, Draco."

"Love you, Daddy." Draco ran over to his father, who mirrored Narcissa's expression, and hugged Lucius snugly. Harry could feel Lucius' strong arms wrap around Draco's tiny shoulders and squeeze.

An unfamiliar, tender tone came into the older man's voice as he said, "I love you, too."

When the memory faded and the empty washroom started to come back into view, it took all of thirty seconds for Harry to understand why Draco was so upset. It was for a reason that was nearly unrelated to the manuscript and that made Harry realise again that Draco was not as okay as he seemed.

Though the manuscript had indeed been discussed and the information stowed away in Draco's mind, the thing that had stood out more than anything else was the warmth and affection that he had remembered of his family. That was why he had been so distraught. That and the fact that, according to Lucius, _Le Choix __Cassé _(or The Broken Choice as Harry was more inclined to say since he only knew English) was something held dear to the Malfoy Family. Furthermore, how had it ended up in Greenwich? Harry knew that the Malfoy estate was in Wiltshire, not Greenwich.

The Malfoy mansion and its contents were all Draco had left of his mother and father. Harry knew the feeling too well not to understand it. He, also, knew the feeling of knowing someone had stolen some of that. In fact, Harry had been enraged when he had found Mundungus doing that very thing with Sirius' things the year before.

"I'm sorry," Harry apologised a few minutes later. "I didn't know, or I would have asked you about it."

Draco shook his head, seemed to realise they were still embracing, and stepped back.

"No," he said, much more calm and now rather tired-sounding. "I overreacted in there. I should be the one apologising. It's just…it caught me by surprise, you know?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I've had my own dealings with that."

"Well, I suppose we ought to go back. How long have we been in here?"

Harry summoned a clock. "Nearly fifteen minutes," he said, surprised. "It didn't seem like that long."

"It never does."

------------

By the time they had re-entered McGonagall's office, Draco had again become that overlaid rocky semblance of himself. Everyday, Harry was beginning to see that none of the Malfoys, Draco, Narcissa, or his father, had ever been one-faced. They would not have survived as long as they did. Draco would not have survived. For this, Harry was strangely grateful. Though he sometimes resented it, being two-faced was a useful skill to attain.

Christoffer, Maxwell, and the headmistress were all seated in their original seats. As they walked up to the three room inhabitants, Harry felt Draco's embarrassment at his behaviour before. With all his might, Harry tried pushing positive thoughts at the other man. He did not know if it worked, but he did not think it could do any harm.

"I am truly regretful of my rude display of behaviour earlier," Draco said contritely when they came up face-to-face. "Please forgive me for my actions."

For a second, they stayed silent before Christoffer gave a short bark of a laugh and said, "Forgiven. It wasn't that big of a deal anyway. None of us got hurt or anything, now did we?"

Draco stared at Christoffer uncomprehendingly, probably stunned at being excused so willingly. Then he nodded courteously and murmured, "Thank you."

"Have a seat, gentlemen," McGonagall spoke up for the first time since they had arrived.

When they sat, again in the same seating arrangement, Christoffer coughed. "Well, at my own risk, I'd like to ask. Draco, what is it that you know about this?" He pointed to the parchment on the table.

Draco pursed his lips then shrugged. "Very little, in all actuality. It is a family heirloom called _Le Choix __Cassé_." At everyone's, excluding Harry, look of confusion, Draco added, "The Broken Choice._"_

"Then you know what it says?" Maxwell asked expectantly.

"Well…no," Draco shook his head. "No one does. Not even my family line could figure it out. We acquired it in the early nineteenth century; again, from where, no one knows. It has never been deciphered, nor is there any known key, but there was always an unquestionable certainty within the Malfoy family that it is incredibly important. The only clue we've ever had was a riddle that was passed down along with it."

"…Which was?" Christoffer prompted.

"'When the clocks tick at the hour of zero and the wheels spin in insignia, the one with the power to see will understand.'" Draco quoted his father's exact words.

"And that means?" Maxwell inquired.

Draco shrugged again. "No one knows. Like I said, all that my father ever told me was what his father had said to him and his father before that. All we received was the scroll and the riddle, nothing more. Presumably, whoever figures out the riddle will be able to decode the runes, but as of yet no one has."

"It is a little obscure," Christoffer hummed to himself. Harry imagined that had he not shaved his beard the summer before he would have stroked it contemplatively. "'When the clocks tick at the hour of zero…hhm…the first part appears to be specifying the time and suchlike, but the last section…'the one with the power to see'. Well, that could be anyone, couldn't it? I mean, we all have sight."

"I don't think it means literally 'a person with eyes'," Draco retorted. "He or she must be able to see something that others cannot…but what? It might not even be referring to a person. 'One' could be in relation to just about anything; possibly a machine."

Maxwell was just opening his mouth to speak when there was a sudden knock at the office door.

"Yes?" McGonagall called. She looked confused as to whom it could be but that was replaced with ease when a fiery red head popped in.

"Headmistress? I'm sorry, are you busy?"

"Oh, no, Miss Weasley, do come in," McGonagall gestured.

The door swung wide, and when Ginny caught sight of Harry sitting in the chair, she nearly ran into the room.

"Harry!" she squealed in delight as she charged up the stairs. As Harry stood, laughing a bit under his breath at her excitement, he could not help but think about how beautiful she had gotten in the past months he had been gone.

'No,' he thought, contradicting himself as he took a step back, smiling, 'maybe she's always been this lovely.'

Taking her in, Harry say that her hair was now halfway down her back. Curl had found its way in, and now her locks fell in shimmering waves of gold-spun ginger. Her light brown, nearly hazel eyes were still as mischievous as ever and were overjoyed at seeing him again. Dressed in her schoolgirl uniform, she was a sight to behold. Harry felt a burst of warmth in his stomach to know she had missed him so much.

"Where have you been?" Ginny asked, leaning back in his arms to look him in the face. "I haven't seen you for ages!"

"I know," Harry answered. "I'm sorry. I would have owled you more, but I was always moving about. Hedwig wouldn't have been able to make it."

"You should have stolen Ron's owl before you left," she teased. "Pigwidgeon is always flying about like a hippogriff eating Alihotsy leaves."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I can't really argue with you there. Pig always was an energetic one."

They stood there staring at one another before Harry could not resist the impulse to pull her close again.

"Oh, wow, I've missed you," Harry murmured into her strawberry-scented hair as he hugged her tight. Her shoulders felt tiny and fragile under his arm as his body began to remember her curves. For several seconds, their touches lingered, faintly tingling with the reminder of past dates and kisses.

The two were duly reminded of the other people in their immediate capacity when McGonagall politely cleared her throat. Harry blushed at the pointed look on the headmistress' face and sat back down quickly, Ginny close at his side. Out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Draco staring at him. He turned just slightly to catch a glimpse of an unexplainably alien look on the other man's face. It gave Harry the shivers; he appeared to be bordering on anger. But then, every aspect of that mise was gone as soon as it had come. En masse, his features abruptly became impassive and devoid of emotion, as esoteric and indecipherable as the scroll in front of him. A muscle in his jaw twinged as he ground his teeth.

"Oh, I apologise, Professor McGonagall, but Professor Hagrid wanted me to inquire about the new pen for the baby manticores. They've been getting rather irritated with their present one and have threatened to sting some of the students."

McGonagall shuffled around with some papers on her desk before she opened the third drawer to her right and withdrew a small, leather notebook.

"Ah, yes," she drawled as she opened it to roughly the middle, "it should be done by this afternoon." Her eyes flickered back up reminiscent of her Animagus form. "Was there anything else Professor Hagrid needed, or is that all?"

Obviously, Ginny wanted to stay longer, from the longing look she sent toward Harry, but she answered McGonagall nonetheless. "That's all, Professor," she sighed.

"Then run along."

Ginny nodded, disappointed, and began to back out of the chamber. "Good-bye, Harry," she called before she shut the door with a subdued, deep bang.

Maxwell was the next to speak.

"Er, Christoffer, we need to get back to the Ministry," he said as he checked his magicked pocket watch. "It's nearly five o'clock. The department will be missing us."

"…Right." Christoffer stood, sighing, and reached out his hand toward Harry.

They shook hands, as did Draco next, before the two Ministry personnel turned to leave. The fireplace in the office was already roaring to go and flared green as Maxwell threw in his lot of Floo powder and stepped in.

"If you can think of anything more, Draco, please let me know," Christoffer said as he sunk his hand into the silver bowl by the hearth. As Draco nodded, Christoffer waved and took off.

"So then, boys," McGonagall said. "I hope you will fare well."

Just before they, too, flooed back to Hogsmeade, Harry linked his arm around Draco and nodded.

"I hope so, too," he murmured almost as an afterthought. Draco's blond hair flickered in the heat waves and slid tickishly across Harry's face. He might have heard Harry's words, but he turned his head away.

**End of Chapter 13.**


	14. Little Fingertips Feel Little Pain

**Title**: System Discordia  
**Author**: Eris Mackenzie  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.  
**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.  
**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work. All pianist songs are composed and owned exclusively by their respective owner as mentioned in the author notes of this story.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light[Post-HBP

**A/N**: Okay, so here is the piano scene I have been wanting to write for forever. Ever since the first draft (and this is the fourth version of the entire story), I have somewhere included a piano scene, and now you all can see it.

And yes, I know this was supposed to contain the dubbed 'shower scene', but I am terribly sorry that I could not fit it in. It will definitely be in the next chapter, I promise, or you can hunt me down and make me handwrite it!

**NOTE: **Draco's songs are consecutively based off of Ludovico Einaudi's Samba and Questa Notte. However, for the overall scene, I wrote it while listening to his Primavera. Ludovico Einaudi's music is absolutely beautiful. It makes me cry every time I hear a new song. I urge every one of my readers to go out and find his songs (especially these two since they pertain to my story and are two of my personal favourites). Buy his Cds. Fly to Italy to see his concerts. Worship his fingers. I cannot express my adoration enough.

----------------

**Chapter Fourteen: Little Fingertips Feel Little Pain**

_He burns me  
like the Great Fire digesting London,  
houses sliding into one another,  
ash wafting toward the river;  
like witches writhing on the stake,  
looking eastward, their eyes searching  
the caterwauling ocean. _

_if he only knew  
if he only knew  
if he only knew  
–JLB_

_------------_

The days slid by like oil on water until nearly a whole week had passed since Harry and Draco had visited Hogwarts. Despite the fact that Draco had only been under Harry's watch for a few short weeks, the brunet could scarcely remember a time when the blond man was not around.

Although Draco's insight on The Broken Choice had indeed shed some new light, it made the situation nonetheless all the more complex and enigmatic. Christoffer had promised to keep them updated should anyone figure out anything, but as of yet Harry had received no word. Presumably that meant that nothing had progressed rather than that Christoffer had been stopped by some of the blockheads at the Ministry.

Since that day, Draco had barely spoken to Harry. The scant conversation that Harry had managed to maintain had consisted of asking what the blond wanted for breakfast that day. As usual, however, he never really answered. Briefly, the brunet would wonder what he had done to warrant such an attitude before he would shake his head and go on about his day. Sometimes he would not see the other man for hours, but every time he would inquire about it the blond would simply shrug and reply, "I've been around."

As it was, Harry was currently sitting at the wenge wood table sipping lukewarm coffee. The sky outside of the small kitchen window was dark and cloudy, tumulus and threatening; it looked stormy but had yet to snow. Once more, he was reminded that he needed to find some winter clothes soon. He took a small sip of the iridescent black coffee and grimaced. It had gone cold.

The orange and red firelight danced off of Harry's eyeglasses as he numbly stared at the dancing light. Idly, he noted that Draco was nowhere to be found again. He would have worried, but he was tired and knew the blond would come back on his own time; yes, Harry knew he was not a good guardian.

In front of the seventeen year old sat the (by now) well-worn scroll copy. It was curious, but despite the fact that The Broken Choice was an important heirloom, Draco had not demanded it back yet. Had it been the other way around, Harry was quite sure that he himself would have torn the damned thing straight out of the Ministry's hands.

As Harry sat there, he let his mind wander from the contents of the days before. It felt nice just to let his thoughts lethargically tumble and toss at their own pace rather than to have to force himself to try a different approach to another riddle, to another answer. However, he soon found himself settling on an area that had recently been making him ill at ease.

Lately, Harry had been having perplexing thoughts when it came to his charge. No, it was not Voldemort; he had already ruled that one out. It was unexpected and unpredictable, but it _was_ him, not someone else. On occasion when he would wake up, he would find himself studying the other man as intently as he would his own reflection, sometimes moreso. By now Harry had become well acquainted with every nuance, every shadow, every dip and shade of Draco's face, of his hands and neck. Even the soft black slit of velvet circling around Draco's neck had somehow become a part of the etching. If someone were to put a paintbrush in Harry's hand, blindfold him, and tell him to create the other's portrait from memory, he was positively sure that he would be able to complete the task.

Nonetheless, this was not what was so new, nor what was so troubling. What made him so confused and muddled was that every once in a while whilst doing that very thing, Harry would suddenly be overcome with the tremendous impulse to lean in and trace Draco's lips with his own, to delve into his mouth and taste his secrets. More and more often, when Harry would awake to find the two of them entangled, arms, legs, and torsos all in some way touching, all in some way connected, he would feel this pounding ache rushing through his body like molten honey and fizzled electricity both slugging and racing through his veins. Sometimes, Harry would give into the desire to touch Draco and would lightly trail his fingertips across his arm, watching in fascination as the nearly translucent hairs stood up and rippled with the his movements. Usually when he stroked the ticklish inside of Draco's left forearm right near the wrist (Draco, somehow, never slept on his other side), the other wizard's breath would catch in his sleep, and he would make the most mesmerizing sound, half-moan and half-protest.

These new sentiments both frightened and worried Harry and made him grateful that the blond was always disappearing. However, as much as he would have otherwise liked, these thoughts would always weave back into his consciousness whether Draco was there or not. He did not know if Draco had caught on to what he was feeling, but he desperately hoped against it. Harry was beginning to feel like the blond was messing with his head more than Voldemort ever had.

The deep resonation of clock cymbals startled Harry out of his thoughts. Promptly, he spilled his coffee all over the table and his shirt in consequence.

"Ah, shite!" Harry swore as he abruptly stood, dripping even more liquid onto the front of his trousers now. 'Well, there's another shirt I'm going to have spell the stains out of,' he thought ruelly. 'It just had to be white, too.'

After thunking down the coffee mug in the sink and silently cursing his addiction to caffeine, Harry trudged his way back to the main hall and made his way up the spiralling staircase. The steps, as usual, creaked in certain areas and reminded him of his cupboard under the stairs in the Dursleys' house. He wondered for half a second how his Muggle relatives were doing before he shook it off without much caring. They were probably on permanent holiday in Tahiti with as much money as he had left for them to repay for the years he had lived there. It was not like he honestly needed to have done so in the first place, but he did not want them to suddenly pull that over his head in later life.

He did not take long to change into another jumper and jeans. Being lazy at the moment, Harry simply threw his clothes into the laundry basket hidden away in the ornate wardrobe to spell later.

He had just opened the bedroom door to go back downstairs and clean up the rest of the spilled coffee he had left when he heard the faintest trickle of sound. Harry's eyebrows furrowed as he looked down the hall, this way and that, but could not seem to find the source of it. After a few seconds of heavy listening, there was not a sound. He figured he must have been imagining things when he heard it again.

It took him a few seconds, but then he realised what it was - a piano. The notes were soft and faint, but there. Curious and perplexed, Harry followed the sound.

The song echoed through the dimly lit corridors but was too muffled to make out clearly from where Harry stood. Within the next few minutes, he came to another set of stairs and was surprised to find that the music was coming from the third floor; though he had known beforehand that the sound in old houses carried, it did far more than he had thought.

Eventually, the melody evened out and became clearer, fused into a number of individual notes, until Harry was faced with a door, half-cracked and ajar. A cold, azure light streamed through the small slit and coloured the floor; when Harry reached out a hand to gently pressure the door completely open, his skin was briefly painted shades of cornflower and cerulean blue.

Past the entrance, he was struck motionless by the sight of Draco sitting in front of a grand piano. Indeed, it was the only piece of furniture in the otherwise bare room, barring the seat that accompanied it. The other man had taken off his thick outer robe and slung it atop the wide window seat, where it had crumpled into a black wraith. Underneath he was wearing a white dress shirt and dark grey, nearly black slacks. His colourless hair streamed across his forehead, cutting his cheekbones in soft elegance. He looked like something out of another world, another place in time. A large pane window allowed the constantly blending light finding its way among the clouds to fall on the room's inhabitants, crafting a surreal landscape and a strangely saddening ambience.

The song he was creating was mellifluous and poignant, flowing from Draco's fingers in an ever constant stream of notes and harmonies. Harry's breath caught as his ears picked up the sound and amplified it in faint echoes. Draco's slender hands poured over the keys, owned them, as if he had been born playing that very note, that very crystallised chord.

For some reason, it hurt Harry, not merely because of the sheer, simple beauty of it but for the heartbreaking expression on the one responsible for creating it. Draco's eyes were closed, his body swaying to the music, but his face.… Harry wanted to reach out and do something to force such a lonely and forsaken look away, but an irrational fear and profound respect kept him rooted to the spot.

This was Draco's moment, only his, and Harry felt that if the blond knew that he was there, it would somehow cheapen the experience. As he watched, Draco's steady hands started to shake, but the song never stumbled, never ceased, never even skipped the smallest fraction of a heartbeat. Gradually, the music slowed and lowered, lifted to the clouds and fell crashing back to the ground again, broken and exquisite, became achingly soft. Even as the last note rung in the motionless air, the loss and yearning still stung as distinctly as if he were screaming it.

Draco's shoulder sagged as if under the weight of the world. His head tilted to the right as, softly, he said, "Harry, I know you're there."

Harry bit his lip, tears stinging his eyes. He did not know why, but he felt he had to say, "I'm sorry."

Draco was silent for a moment before he shook his head, still not looking Harry in the eye. "Don't be. There is nothing for you to be sorry for."

Harry did not argue that point, did not say that there were hundreds of things that he had to be sorry for, did not go up to the other man and shake him and ask him, plead with him, to tell him _why_. He shook his head; where had that come from? His attitude had abruptly turned bitter, incredibly sombre tinted with anger.

Unsure whether it was okay to do so, Harry stepped into the room carefully, his footfalls skating past until he was standing beside the piano. Draco's pale eyelashes grazed his cheeks like miniature, unused paintbrushes. Harry lifted a finger and lightly traced the smooth, glossy black frame of the instrument; faintly, as if infused with the pain it had just witnessed, it thrummed under his touch.

He did not know what to say, and what he finally did speak was inadequate, off-topic, but he could think of nothing else.

"So this is where you've been running off to," Harry said quietly, his words soft-natured and sharp.

Draco, predictably, did not move but to gently stroke the ivory keys as if a lover's skin. "Yes," he replied flatly, fatigue and faint sadness warring.

"That was beautiful."

"Thank you." Draco's eyes were still glued to keys. His hands tapped them absent-mindedly, obsessively, but never pressed hard enough to make a sound. "I won't even remember how to play in the next few months. Not the simplest samba, not the vaguest recollection of a note." He sighed shallowly. "Oh, how I'm going to miss it."

Harry frowned. "Don't talk like that."

"Like what?" Draco turned to look at him, bitter, resigned emotions morphing his delicate features. "The truth? You and I both know that my trial will not go well." He turned his back to Harry, resumed his distracted contemplation. "I want to enjoy what little time I have left. My body might live after this, but my mind will be gone when the Dementors get done with me. There will be nothing left. All of this….Can you imagine? I've lived my whole life…for nothing."

Harry had to stop and close his eyes; he did not care if Draco were to see. Yes, the truth, that was what hurt him the most, what hurt both of them the most. There was not a thing he could say. Acceptance left no room for hopes and dreams and everything in between that he could try to say and somehow make it better. 'It would not matter anyway,' he thought, while a twin parasite spat, 'Is that not the biggest lie in humanity ever told?'

"How did you learn to play?" he asked as he opened his eyes, struggling to both regard the other man's privacy and to satisfy his own curiosity.

Draco shrugged distantly. "My mother," was all he afforded.

Harry nodded and sighed, not expecting anything further. He stood for several minutes, both of the men encompassed in this sterile, blue silence, before he got the notion that Draco did not want him there.

Just as he turned to leave, however, Draco said something that stopped him.

"…I can still remember the first song she ever taught me."

Though surprised, Harry managed to keep his face a blank slate. "Oh?"

As Harry turned back toward him, Draco nodded. "Yes," he replied, his tone slightly wistful. "It was a lullaby. She never did tell me the name, but I remember every note."

"Will… will you play it for me?" Harry asked uncertainly, biting the side of his bottom lip. He was not sure if it was his place to ask, but perhaps this would be alright.

For a couple of heartbeats, Draco did not mutter a word, but then he finally nodded his consent. "Sit on the window seat; you'll be more comfortable there," he said, jerking his chin vaguely in front of him.

Harry obeyed reflexively and sat on the edge of the abundantly padded bench built into the window recess. Out of habit, he pulled his legs up and folded them under his arms, close to his chest. He rested his head lightly on his knees, eyes intent on the wizard in front of him. Miraculously, instead of snowing, it had begun raining.

The drizzling raindrops, nearly hail and half-frozen from the cold, hit the glass behind Harry in a soothing semblance of a background to the beginning strains of Draco's lullaby. The reflection of trickling water played across the blond's face as gradually as his fingers on the keys sped into a simple but nonetheless emotional piece. The sound itself was soft and gentle at first; it calmed Harry's mind in a way that he only remembered in dreams of his infancy, reminded him of standing on cliffs overlooking sharply grey waters, salt-fresh air gusting through his hair. It sounded strangely familiar as Harry found his eyelids fluttering sleepily. It was lovely and, with Draco playing it, hurtful.

As he allowed his eyes to finally shut, not dozing but simply getting closer to the music, Harry could feel himself sliding along the ravines and hills of the notes and across the shattering terrain full of dips and turns that overwhelmed a part of him that he had not known existed. It occurred to him that maybe this was what Draco felt, too, and why he loved playing so much.

For a moment, a picture of Narcissa and a much younger Draco sitting at another piano, Narcissa patiently tapping her finger along with her son's playing, invaded Harry's consciousness. It was subtly mixed with a wave of summertime breeze, swaying tiger lilies, floating muslin curtains. With that scene, Harry was filled with a longing like never before, and he opened his eyes to Draco's stare.

Draco's gaze was intense and focused; he must have known that Harry was aware because the brunet was staring point-blank at him, too. In that moment, Harry felt a connection deep inside as clear as a white-hot cord binding Draco to him, and he realised for just that one second that he did not want that to go away. Then Draco shifted his eyes back to the piano, and it was broken.

Just as slowly and acute as it had begun, the lullaby ended, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. From some unknown well, Harry could feel a chasm, as bleak and desolate as ebony mountains, that had suddenly fallen away into the foaming and forgotten sea of his thoughts.

After some time, Draco shook his head and stood.

"It's getting late. We should go back downstairs." He strode to the door and turned his head to call over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

Harry, who was still curled up on the window seat, started and nodded quickly as he unfolded his creaky joints and stood. He crossed the room and followed the other man out. Just before the door creaked to a close behind the two of them, Harry stole one last look at the lone piano jutting up in front of the window like a mountain of black wood and ivory then looked at the man in front of him as if that would answer his questions.

--------------

The coffee had ended up soaking into the top layer of wood by the time Harry had gotten around to cleaning the table. Though he did manage to get most of the liquid out and repair the finish, there were still faint, pockmarked stains if he looked in the right light. He merely shook his head and took the long route around to getting upstairs.

It was almost 9:30 post meridian when Harry had settled down enough to go back to their rooms. Predictably, he found Draco sitting in one of the chairs by the now-curtained window, legs crossed and leaning slightly on his right elbow, reading a book by the dim lamplight. He did not look up until Harry had turned up the fuel, allowing more light to spill onto the pages.

"Don't you know that reading in the dark hurts your eyes?" Harry mused as he invited himself to take a seat in the matching armchair. The brass oil lamp separating the two chairs slightly blurred Draco's features for a second as Harry adjusted his position.

Draco shrugged and closed his book, placing one of his fingers between the pages as a marker. "I've been doing it so often now that I don't even think about it. I suppose you're right, though."

Harry's eyes flickered over the spine of the book; French again. "What are you reading?" he asked.

"A book on earth magic by François Laroche," Draco replied, then went on to summarise. "He contemplates about the possible connections and limitations on whether the earth magic contained within witches and wizards could ever be expanded, harnessed, or controlled, not by an inanimate and magical object, but channelled through a single or several persons."

"Oh, really?" Harry was oblivious to what he was referring to, so he made some nonsensical agreeing sounds.

Harry was caught off guard by the sudden light-hearted chuckle Draco gave. His teeth shone pearly white in the lamplight. He had a dimple on his left cheek that Harry had never noticed before, though whether that was a fault of the brunet's or not was up for debate.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" he laughed, still smiling widely.

Blushing and defeated, Harry nodded embarrassedly.

"Well, just ask for more information. It is useless to sit there and pretend. When you know something is when you can use it, and you never know when it might come in handy. Do you even know what earth magic _is_?"

Harry shook his head, still slightly discomfited, but Draco did not seem inclined to tease him; if anything, the blond appeared to regard his lack of knowledge merely as something that was not surprising nor uncommon. This allowed his awkwardness to gradually fade away and die quietly in some elapsed recess of his psyche.

Draco's eyes were fixed on a point to the right of Harry. "Earth magic is fundamentally inside all of us. The only reason that witches and wizards can do magic is because of the fact that their very cells, their very atoms, are able to interact with those in the earth's energy. Muggles do not have the required molecular structure to do so and therefore cannot access it. Some people actually think that magical persons came about from a mutation in our genes back when the species was still evolving. Where this energy comes from exactly is not known yet, but one thing that is certain about every witch and wizard is that they are all connected."

"Connected?" Harry's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think of magic like a string. The earth is the starting point, then for every person there is a separate piece that is tied to them. However, then think of what happens through magical bonding -"

"Magical bonding?" Harry interrupted before he could stop himself.

"Magical bonding can come from a number of things: marriage, family, bonds between friends, even some between teachers and students. The list goes on and on, even casting a simple spell on another, but the thing that I'm trying to point out is that everyone is in some way connected at one point in time. Even if the bond is legally terminated, the magical signature - residue, I suppose you could say - is still present. There will always be a kind of invisible link between the persons involved. A less savoury way of thinking about it is like the spreading of a disease. You might not know the person who originally had it, but you still get his illness anyway."

Harry thought for several seconds and allowed the information to imprint on his mind before he asked, rather amazed, "How do you know all of this stuff?"

Draco lifted his shoulder and dropped it again. "I read a lot as a child. I did not care so much for knowledge when I was starting out in Hogwarts, but…in the past few years I've realised how little I actually know."

Harry shook his head slowly at Draco's answer. "You know, despite everything you've shown me, I still don't really know you. You just keep surprising me."

"Well, of course not, Harry," Draco said. The name still sounded foreign on the his tongue, but it pleased Harry all the same. "After all, in retrospect, what do _I_ know about _you_?"

"Er…" Harry had to admit that he did not have an answer to that.

"I know that your name is Harry James Potter. I know that you deflected the Killing Curse when you were a year old and almost destroyed Voldemort, but that your parents, of whom you are extremely protective, were not so lucky. I know that you still duel better than me, and that for the longest time I hated you for everything you always seemed to best me at without any effort at all."

"Why?" Harry asked quietly.

"Why what?"

"Why did you hate me? It's not like I was trying to be mean or anything; it just so happened that our abilities were different."

Draco sighed. "There didn't need to be a reason. I hated you less for what you had personally done and more for what your reputation had built. I despised the preferential treatment, even if you won't admit it, that your House always got, and that no matter what happened you continually came back. Everyone appeared to love you… but I suppose I hated you the most for your stubbornness."

"_My_ stubbornness?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Mm," he hummed back. "It is because of that that you have made it this far. I envy that in truth."

The brunet just shook his head; did Draco not know that he had pulled through a thousand times more than Harry himself could have done? All of the things he had gone through, and he still did not see. For a second, a reoccurring flash of a naked and bloody Draco bent weakly over a table, trembling and dried tear-tracks under his pain-polished eyes, made Harry shudder and his fingers curl into fists.

Catching Harry's shiver, Draco asked, "Are you cold?"

Surprised at the concern apparent in the blond's expression, Harry replied quickly, "No, I was just thinking."

Draco nodded but did not inquire about it. Instead he changed the subject and said, "Yes, we're going to need to find some thicker clothing. Although, I suppose we ought to be thankful so far; it hasn't held off on the snow this long in years. I, also, need to go about getting a new clothing veil for Mrs. Black's portrait. I keep meaning to acquire one."

"Yeah…maybe we can -" The rest of Harry's reply was cut off by a large yawn that forced its way unexpectedly out of his mouth.

Over the loud crack in Harry's jaw, he heard Draco said amusedly, "Maybe we should get some rest. I'm getting tired, too."

"Hhm, I suppose you're right," Harry agreed as he stretched a little and scratched his stomach. He stood after Draco had replaced his finger with a small silver bookmark and set the book down.

The blond strode into the washroom first while Harry trudged across the room and changed. It occurred to him as he buttoned his very warm, red flannel pyjama shirt that this was one of the first occasions that they had actually gone to bed at the same time. More often than not, Harry was up late, either scouring his brain with thoughts or obsessively treading the halls.

It took relatively little time to see both of them freshly spruced and ready to sleep. Harry was already snuggled deep under the covers when he peeked his head out to watch Draco blow out the oil lamp. His maladjusted eyes saw him in the dark as a pale blur that steadily came closer. Harry felt the mattress dip slightly with the addition of Draco's weight. There were several seconds of rustling sounds as the blond became situated, and then the night was quiet.

"Goodnight, Draco," Harry could not help whispering.

For a few moments, he thought that the other man had not heard him, but then a soft, sleepy voice said, "Goodnight, Harry."

'Sleep tight,' Harry added silently some moments later and closed his eyes. The even breathing beside him told him that Draco had already fallen asleep.

----------

_It was beginning to darken out, and the world was coloured with the edges of twilight. The warm summer breeze was scented with the mist of pavement that had been freshly sprinkled with rain. A faint tinge of honeydew flowers curled into Harry's nostrils, soaked into the porous membranes, from the front yard of the house across the street of Number 4 Privet Drive. He stood, motionless, something electric as lightning on the horizon. _

_Someone, rough-voiced, broke the thinly-veiled illusion of suburban perfection. _

"_He's in there." _

_Harry turned and squinted, realised someone was under a Disillusionment charm and also that they were indisputably Death Eaters. They were talking about him, Harry thought a moment later when he heard muted conversation and caught a snitch of his name._

_There were at least three others from the sounds of shuffling; Harry contemplated in a hazy half-thought that, for some of Voldemort's lackeys, they were quite loud. Or, maybe it was because nothing else on the street was making any noise. The light was a scrim of purple, the clouds stained orange and red. The navy of nightfall had nearly taken over the skies when he heard a loud bang._

_With a sudden wave of commotion, Harry saw the Death Eaters fleeing the house, scattering to the four winds. How and when they had entered Number 4 Privet Drive never even occurred to him. Still standing stationary and in wonderment of what was going on, Harry watched his own mirror image shoot out of the house after them. It was like a crack of thunder reverberated in his brain as the sight finally triggered the tap into memory. _

_An angry knot twisted in his stomach as he abruptly took off after the others. A hard lump was in his throat that he could not swallow past. He knew what would happen. He began searching compulsively, hoping against hope that he was not about to do what he knew he had already done. He could not stop it. Gods, he could not stop it._

"_Come on, you goddamned cowards! Why are you running away? Do you have to go and hide behind that bloody _fuck_ of a master?" his dream self screamed, raw-throated and wild-eyed and frightening crazed, into the beginnings of night. _

_Harry remembered what it felt like to snap, when everything suddenly became too much. This was the result. He recalled the sensation of when the world blurred and became a salty red at the edges, when he no longer cared if he would be killed because, gods, that would be a mercy._

_The sounds of panting and boots hitting pavement were explosive in the quiet neighbourhood. Miraculously, or perhaps just because they were cowering behind their perfectly ironed curtains, no one had come out onto the street to investigate. Cowards, that's what the whole lot of them were, what the whole world was. Who had ever decided that everything should be left to one boy? A _boy_. For fuck's sake, he was still a teenager, not the backbone of the wizarding world._

_Harry watched in anticipated horror as the slowest of the Death Eater pack tripped (a fatal error that he could not have prevented, just another cruel twist of fate it seemed) and fell. Then, he watched himself as he ran up and began kicking and kicking and kicking, a terrible number of cracks renting the air. _

_The person behind the skull mask groaned and pleaded, and still Harry did not stop the on-slot that now his fists had joined. The Death Eater fought back fiercely, breaking a few bones of his own and leaving finger-shaped bruises that would last for weeks. The neck tendons and arteries, all that glorious, dying life under his hands throbbed, each beat a little slower. Harry squeezed tighter until his knuckles went white, fingers and joints numb and aching. One truth: strength fuelled on pure rage always won out. _

_His comrades had not even bothered a spare glance behind before they split the air and vanished. _

_And then, gods, he was done, and this was it, and how could I have done this? Gods, there's blood all over my hands. He didn't even fight back. What am I going to do? Oh, gods, what happened? What happened? And now he is sobbing, great wrenching gasps of air that sound painful even to those still stapled to their houses. What broke in me?_

_The mask had come askew. Blank blue eyes, already starting to cloud. Blond hair. 'Malfoy?' Harry's brain scrambled, short-circuited. A lurch behind his navel brought a strangling stream of vomit to splatter on the ground. 'No…no, have I killed him, too? Gods, please, not him! Not him!' _

_The world had taken on a kaleidoscope blur, and he could no longer tell who it was lying on the ground, himself or the Death Eater or Draco._

_-----------------_

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

A voice kept calling him from the abyss in which his mind was succumbed; numbly, Harry realised it was Draco. When he surfaced, great gulping wheezes were breaking the night's silence. Gradually, he became aware that it was himself making the noise. He was shaking.

"Are you alright? What happened?"

Draco's face loomed above him in the dark; his worried features were bathed in a million washes of blue and black. From the weight Harry felt along his torso, Draco was leaning over him, both arms braced on either side of the brunet. Sore, raw relief flooded Harry at the sight of him breathing and warm and alive. Alive. Harry thanked a million gods in that moment.

Without explanation or even a word in response, Harry reached up to the man, trembling but unable to stop, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and pulled him close enough to feel the outlines of his ribs. Surprise shocked the blond's muscles into rigidity before the resistance melted, and calm comfort took its place.

"Ssh…you were having a nightmare," Draco murmured gently into Harry's ear as he stroked the sweat-soaked ebony locks. Harry whimpered and snuck his tear-streaked face into the crook of Draco's neck, unable to form a comprehensive thought. "It's okay. It's okay."

Draco had to repeat himself a number of times before Harry finally fully separated from that dream place that he called his memories, and it was quite a bit longer before the brunet had settled down enough to be able to breathe properly. Draco's body heat reassured Harry that he was there; the words whispered into the shell of his ear helped to stabilise this world and stave away the other.

Eventually the shuddering feeling left his hands, and they no longer felt drenched in hot, crimson liquid. All he could feel now were the warm planes and curves of Draco's muscles beneath the thin layering of his shirt. Draco was lying atop him, but his weight did not overpower or crush; instead it felt like a welcome anchor, a blanket of flesh and blood and breath.

Harry held on and did not speak and fell back into a dreamless sleep to the feel of Draco's arms, the feel of safety. All he dreamt of after that were soft words and a soothing, white wave.

**End of Chapter Fourteen.**

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**A/N: PLEASE REVIEW. I APPRECIATE IT WHEN PEOPLE READ, BUT I NEED REVIEWS TO HELP AID THE FLOW OF CREATIVE JUICES! **


	15. Uneven Days, Uneven Nights

**Title**: System Discordia  
**Author**: Eris Mackenzie  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.  
**Spoilers**: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.  
**Main Pairing**: Harry/Draco  
**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, Edmund/(early)Draco more to come.

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work.

**Summary**: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light[Post-HBP

**A/N: **First off, I know I didn't update for a long, long time! I hit a bad writer's block for a while there - I couldn't write anything! I almost drove my head through a wall. So, for those who did cheer me on (because many people did, I'm proud to say), **THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU**! It is because of your acknowledgement that I continue to post here. You all are really great.

And…okay, I guess you guys have to come and hunt me down now. -sheepish- I know this was supposed to have the shower scene but, uh -cough- itkindadoesn't. I had a hell of a time with this, as the time it took to update should tell you, and I decided that if I put in the shower scene and some of the other stuff that I needed to have in here for the sake of the plotline that it really would seem too melodramatic. Yeah, more melodramatic than it already is. I tried everything I could think of to put in the scene, but it got pushed to the next chapter. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But won't it seem better to have everything flow rather than it be bunched up? -smiles reassuringly and backs up slowly-

**About the 'reincarnation' concerns: **No, Harry is NOT Edmund, nor is Draco the newest version of the 'early' Draco. They are all four different people. You will begin to see some distinct differences between them in time.

Also, I would like to thank inu-youkai 911 for pointing out a slight mistake. Apparently I had typed "The Broken Promise" instead of "The Broken Choice" somewhere in one of the chapters. I do apologise; the latter is the correct translation.

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**Chapter Fifteen: Uneven Days, Uneven Nights**

_There is peace and rest and comfort in sorrow. -Soren Kierkegaard_

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The next morning when Harry awoke he was alone.

He came to very slowly, drifting, as if he had all the time in the world. His breathing single-handedly could have lulled him back to sleep, but begrudgingly his ears began to pick up sounds and pulled him out of that half-dreamland. His verdant eyes opened flutteringly, his dark eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, pupils unfocused and huge.

At first the world was a blur of white. Then he blinked again. The room came into focus and grew into shapes, melding into the familiar spacious confines of the cornflower walls. A soft, clear light was shining through the gauzy under-curtains hung behind the stuffy, heavy ones drawn at night and shifted in warm patterns across the white bed sheets. Although it was not, the painting across the room seemed to shimmer as if magicked from the illusion of the sun.

Harry hummed sleepily and languorously stretched, still on his stomach; his arms strained to clutch the headboard and his toes curled as if struggling to grow backward into his heels. The sheets wound around his middle and his legs like a cocoon just beginning to develop. Yawning, he turned his head toward the right side of the bed.

Immediately, his senses, more than any effort from his conscious mind, singled out the fact that no one was beside him. The sheets on the other side of the bed, when he rolled over and stuffed his face into the other's pillow, were cool, had probably been for hours. The pale crème linen smelled faintly of the shampoo Draco used. Reflexively, Harry breathed deep and filled his lungs to the brim with the scent.

With this, the sensation of holding the blond pressed to him the night before and the words he had whispered came back in a flood. Harry grew instantly tense, muscles coiled as stiff and tight as a wooden board. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he recalled in none-too-vague detail exactly what had happened. Then, lesser, more disturbing touches became apparent that he had not had the mind to think of the night before: the fluid, minute workings of Draco's muscles under his fingers, the splashes of warm breath, the heat of the other's body that had cradled him to sleep. How wrongly comfortable and calm he had felt being held by an ex-enemy.

However, Harry could not even force himself to think like that anymore, to refer to Draco as an 'ex-Death Eater'. It frightened Harry because now Draco was just _Draco_, even in his mind. He was rapidly running out of reasons to fend off the way the blond was making him feel, and, oh, did it hurt to scour his brain for more.

Harry buried his head in the pillow and tried desperately not to think. Why had he woken up today?

Regretfully, his movements had irritated a certain organ of his named Bladder, and he was forced to sprint off to the lavatory to satisfy its vengeance. When he momentarily returned, he lamely pulled on some clothes that he did not even bother to try to match and collapsed on the side of the unmade bed, thrusting his head into his hands. What should he say when he saw Draco? Deny what had happened? Ignore it? Say nothing at all?

Harry sighed after a long while; this was not helping. Maybe once he had eaten something (though the very thought of food made his stomach turn), he would be able to function better and work out a way past this problem.

Hesitantly, Harry walked out of the bedroom and toward the stairs. As he made his way down the grand staircase, Harry caught a whiff of cooking bacon, oily and crisp even in aroma, and wondered vaguely if Draco was cooking breakfast. His assumption were proven correct when he reached the kitchen door, opened it, and saw the blond man, looking as put-together as ever, standing in front of the large griddle stove. Harry walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder; two skillets were frying bacon and fat sausages in one, golden hash browns in the other.

Draco, apparently, had not noticed Harry was there yet as he side-stepped to the chopping board on the counter next to the stove and began to dice some fresh, green onion sprouts. They formed a small mound next to the tomato and green pepper piled on the wooden board. These he dumped into a metal mixing bowl filled to the halfway point with what looked like whipped eggs and milk. Then he added some seasonings that Harry recognised and others he did not.

Harry bit his lip before he finally inquired, "What are you making?"

Draco jumped at the suddenness of Harry's voice. The knife he had been holding tumbled off the counter and clattered loudly on the tiled flooring, spewing tiny droplets of water and food particles across the floor.

"Merlin, don't sneak up on me like that!" Draco exclaimed as he bent over to pick up the blade.

"Sorry," Harry apologised, more contrite than he normally would have been. He tried to ignore the promptly inquiring look that passed over Draco's features when he glanced up at the blond from his position wiping down the dirtied tiles.

Draco stood and tossed the rag into the sink, intending to clean it later. "So…you're hungry, then, I take it?"

Surprisingly, though he had not felt so a moment before, Harry found that he actually was. He nodded in answer.

The tension that he had expected seemed almost non-existent but for a faint greasy nagging. It made him both incredibly relieved and slightly suspicious; he would rather either know that the subject would not come up or to have it done with as soon as possible. Waiting always made him feel shaky, sick.

"I didn't know you could cook," he commented, trying to ignore the uneasy feelings he was getting. He shifted from foot-to-foot.

"I'm just making omelettes," Draco replied as he poured the finished mixture into another pan. The kitchen filled with sizzling sounds that echoed off of the walls. "Nothing too difficult. A simple recipe will suffice in the mornings. My nanny actually taught me how to cook when I was a child."

"Oh?"

"Audrey-Claire. She's, uh, she's dead now."

Harry was stricken at the somewhat melancholy tone of Draco's voice. "I'm sorry, Draco. I didn't know," he said quickly.

Draco shook his head and offered him a small smile. "Please don't be. It was a natural time for her to go. It was quite a few years ago now anyway."

Harry merely stood there uncomfortably as he watched Draco flip the omelettes to the other side. Draco stirred the hash browns before extinguishing the flame. Harry's nervous fingers plucked at the hem of his black pullover, then twisted in his ebony hair.

"Uh, is there anything you want me to help you with?" he asked as he dug his hands in his trouser pockets to hide the insistent fidgeting.

"No. I'm fine."

"No…really. I don't like doing nothing when I could be being useful."

Draco gave him an odd look then said, "Why?"

Harry shrugged, not liking the scrutinising feel of the blond man's gaze on him. "I used to cook for my aunt and her family every morning, so I guess I'm not used to having someone else do it. In fact," he realised, "this is the first time someone that I know personally has cooked for me."

"What about in Hogwarts? The house-elves cooked everything."

"Nah, it isn't the same." Harry shook his head. "Plus, you're not cooking for a bunch of school kids, now are you?"

Draco was forced to admit that this was true and finally gestured toward the cabinets to his right. "Well, if you want to help that much, you can watch the omelettes while I set the table," he suggested.

"Okay."

He strode over to where Draco was holding out the spatula for him to grab. He grasped the instrument and had stopped to stand a little closer to Draco than he expected but did not mind. He could feel Draco's body heat along with the scorching steam from the skillets until the other man moved away to the cabinets to the right.

When the blond found the glassware that he was looking for, he began the set the table. As Draco shuffled over to the other side of the table, Harry handed over the linen napkin sitting on the edge of the counter without the blond even needing to ask.

Draco grasped it without thinking, then turned back towards Harry with a bemused expression. "How did you know I'd get that next?"

Harry shrugged and simply replied, "Oh, routine, I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you set the table in the same way that I always do; glassware first, napkins next, utensils last. I always pour the tea after I set the table, then serve the food. Same, right?"

Draco looked a bit taken back, then the smallest semblance of a curious smile crossed his lips. "I'll say, Po-_Harry_. Damn, I'm having more trouble remembering to say your name than I had thought I would."

"Ah." Harry nodded knowingly. "I think I had caught that, thanks." At Draco's glare, Harry added, "Maybe it's because you've never used it before."

"And you have?" Draco replied doubtfully.

"Used your first name?"

Draco nodded.

"Well, yes. I mean, not aloud but certainly in my head at points."

"When?"

Harry gave him a queer look. "What do you mean 'when'?"

"What are you thinking about when you think of me?"

"Nothing in particular," Harry said quickly, blushing. He suddenly remembered past the amiability just why he had dreaded coming downstairs. It hit him as quite strange that he had been able to forget about it in the first place.

"I think that omelette is done there, Harry," Draco commented about a minute later when he glanced into the skillet. If he had caught the pink-cheeked expression, he did not point it out, for which Harry was supremely grateful.

"Oh…uh, yeah."

Harry turned off the burner and scooped the omelette out of the pan onto the plate that Draco held out to him. Draco reached past him and grabbed another wide spatula out of the makeshift vase-like container they were arranged in. He flipped the hash browns once more and added both the potatoes and the meat to the dish.

"Here," Draco said as he shoved the plate in the general direction of the brunet.

"Oh, thanks." Harry grappled with the porcelain edge for a second before he got a good grasp.

When he sat down at the table, he noticed that there was only one place setting.

"Er, aren't you eating, too?" Harry asked awkwardly. He did not welcome the idea of eating whilst Draco sat back and watched him with that penetrating gaze.

Draco, who was tending to the dirty skillets and filling up the sink, shook his head. "No," he said without turning around, "I ate already."

"When? It's only ten o'clock."

"Before you woke up."

This did not give Harry much information, but he shrugged and started stabbing at his hash browns with vigour. He wished that he had some vinegar as he usually ate it but did not dwell on the thought. The omelette, Harry decided as he slid the first succulently spiced and surprisingly juicy piece of egg into his mouth, was definitely a million times better than any he had ever been able to whip up.

"Hey, Draco," Harry piped up about five minutes later.

"Hhm?" said man hummed from in front of the sink.

"I thought that you didn't do the whole manual labour thing," Harry said curiously as he watched the blond rinse off a drinking glass that he must have used before and set it upside down on a dish towel to dry. It struck Harry as odd that, while it had been routine since the brunet could remember, Draco even knew _how_ to wash dishes magically, let alone the muggle way.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, washing dishes and cooking were always things that house elves did for you, weren't they?"

"Of course. Malfoys don't do that sort of thing."

The statement struck Harry as insanely hypocritical seeing as how Draco was doing 'that sort of thing' right now, but he kept mum.

"Then how did you learn?" he asked.

Draco snorted; Harry could just imagine the ridiculing look on his face. "I may not have done them before, but I'm not blind. Naturally I would have seen the house elves once or twice doing chores. When I was a child, actually, I really used to enjoy watching the house elves in the gardens and the kitchens. So, it is not that foreign an idea that I picked up some of the mechanics."

"You _enjoy _cooking then?"

"Well…I guess. It reminds me of potions in a way - not that potions was my favourite class by any means."

Harry must have looked shocked, because Draco started laughing.

"What do you mean?" the brunet man demanded. "You were always the star of potions. Everyone knew that Snape adored you."

"Exactly. It was because of that that I excelled so much in that class more than any interest I personally had in it. Potion making is a dirty business, literally and figuratively. You spend most of your hours in a dark, damp place because otherwise the ingredients would become impotent. Quite a few of said ingredients are unattainable legally and so must be bought through the black market. You become so isolated from the world that you are awkward going back in…. There are a number of downfalls to being a potions master, none of which I wished bestowed upon me."

"So what were you really interested in?" Harry asked slowly.

Draco shrugged. "A number of things, but perhaps the classes that I enjoyed the most were the philosophy courses."

"Huh?" Harry had never heard of such a thing.

"Oh, you would not have been in an advanced enough position to have been eligible." Draco said it in such a matter-of-fact voice that Harry could not even find it in himself to be offended.

"What was it about?"

"The classes? We spoke about things like the magical structure within society and the theory of purebloods."

Although he did not mean to, Harry could not pass a derisive frown. "So, you talked about how much you hated Muggles then, is it?"

"Yes and no," Draco said coolly without a trace of guilt.

"How the hell is that supposed to help students? That just boxes in their minds!"

Harry was going to start on a rampage (he could never stand ideas like purebloods being better than, say, Hermione) when Draco beat him to the chase.

"Harry," he broke in calmly, "do not slander my beliefs. They will not change with words."

"But how is all of this hatred toward Muggles going to change otherwise?" Harry could not help but argue. "All this does is create more and more animosity!"

"Harry!"

The brunet was startled out of his burgeoning argument by the sharp, cutting tone of Draco's voice.

"Do you even know _why_ we struggle to keep wizards and Muggles from interbreeding? For all of the tolerance you preach, I don't hear you giving others a chance to explain."

"Why should I?" Harry spat back, though with less venom than he had meant.

"Harry, would you listen to yourself? Just stop. I don't want to argue today."

Harry wanted to continue quarrelling with all of his being, but something about the manner with which Draco had just spoken seemed off. No, not just what he had said, but how he had said it, how his body had moved. Tired was the first adjective to come to mind.

"Are you alright?" Harry could not help asking. He suddenly felt like an arse for bringing up an argument that never had a satisfactory ending.

Draco, who had shut his eyes for a brief moment, winced at Harry's words. "Yes…I…I've just got a little headache," he said, rubbing his right temple. "I don't know where it came from."

"Are you sure?" Harry inquired, concerned, as he stepped a bit closer. "You look a bit peaky. Your face is really flushed."

Unthinkingly, Harry reached out a hand to touch the arm Draco had up to massage his head. His fingers had just barely skimmed his elbow when Draco jerked away, almost as if in pain.

"Don't touch me," he said quickly, forcefully.

Harry backed up slowly, stung. When Draco opened his eyes, he saw the myriad of unwilling hurt and worry barely concealed on Harry's face.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, and sounded like he actually meant it. "I just-maybe I'll go lie down for a while. I'll be upstairs."

"Okay…" Harry said as an afterthought as he watched the blond stride, slower than usual, out of the kitchen.

Only after the door had stopped swinging did Harry realise that Draco had not once brought up the night before.

-----------

At around three o-clock, Harry decided to walk up the stairs to see how Draco was doing. He had gotten another letter from Christoffer about an hour after Draco had gone to take his nap. In it, the Ministry official had updated him on the process of decrypting La Choix Cassé - or, in other words, begging him to grill Draco on any information that he may have neglected to share at their last encounter. Other than the very vague details that Draco had outlined at Hogwarts a few weeks ago, they had been able to find zilch on the ancient document.

When he reached their bedroom, he opened the door to find Draco already up. He was sitting with his legs off of the side of the bed, holding and staring very hard at something in his hands. Although he did not look it, Harry had learned enough about him to understand that he was upset.

He did not even have to say anything to get Draco to speak.

"The most curious thing happened," he began in a deceptively calm voice, "while I was sleeping, I heard a tap on the window. When I went to see what it was, I saw that it was a Ministry owl. I opened the window, and into my hands, it dropped a letter…and this."

He thrust his hand out as if to throw it at Harry but had held on at the last second. Encased in his trembling fingers sat a ring. A very _old_ ring, at that. It was a bit bulky, kind of like the class ring that Harry had seen Dudley wear, only not as ugly or conventional. The metal had the dirty bronzed colour of silver in need of polishing. The ring bore an emblem, an intricate sword, lance, and shield. Above this shield sat a coronet entwined with three-leaved ivy and rippled cloth that hurt Harry's eyes when he tried to differentiate between vines. It must have taken the jeweller ages to do by hand. Or, magic, for that matter.

For all of the complex details, however, within this coat of arms was a simple Latin phrase that even Harry could decipher. _Nos es_. We are. For some reason, this phrase struck Harry as memorable, not for any purposes that it had stated, but for the simple meaning in it. We are.

It did not take a genius to figure out what it was - a family ring. But was it Malfoy's or some other family's? It did not have any semblance of the Malfoy name or an M anywhere on it, and Harry was not up to trying to guess the meanings of the symbols in the emblem.

So, naturally, he asked, "Is this yours?"

"Yes, Potter, why else would I have it?" he spat in his old schoolboy taunt, thereby affirming what Harry had suspected; he _was_ upset.

"What's wron-" Harry began to ask before it became glaringly apparent to him. His mouth dropped opened. "…Ohh…"

He suddenly recalled the memory from the boys' loo in Hogwarts. Draco had shown him anything he would have ever needed to know to make the connect between why Draco was upset and the ring. It was so piercingly obvious that he could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. However, that was washed out within mere seconds as he remembered that he should not be so selfish; it was Draco whose feelings mattered right now, not his petty humiliation.

He did not bother to try and apologise for his thick-headedness; it would not have been important to Draco at the moment anyway. Instead, Harry opted to perch on the side of the bed next to the silent blond, who had reverted back to staring - though now almost unseeingly - at the ring that he still clutched between his fingers. This time when Harry reached out to touch Draco, he did not pull away. Draco seemed to sigh and allow his stiff-backed body to let go of its moorings and melt down onto Harry's outstretched palm. When the blond leaned his weight against him, Harry took a chance and cautiously inched his arm around the other's shoulders. Draco's skin was chilly, and Harry tightened his grip. Draco did not seem to mind as he began to speak.

"The last time I saw this, it was on my father's hand," he said softly.

Harry sighed, honestly a bit relieved, when he heard the tone of Draco's voice. He did not seem to be on the verge of tears or any suchlike. In its place was a mood of nostalgia that, while it was indeed sad, was more melancholy than hysterical.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, feeling wholly inadequate.

He had always felt uncomfortable when people had apologised to him about his own parents but he had never recognized how awkward it felt coming doing it himself. He guessed that it was merely something people said when they had nothing to say. He wished that he could help Draco relate more, to let him know that he _did_ understand, not just like how everyone always surmised that they did.

For a second, Harry wondered at whether the experience of losing Draco's parents was actually more difficult than what Harry had gone through. After all, as depraved as it might sound, Harry had not known his parents for long before they had been taken away, had not spent his life with caring people only to have them snatched away by cruel hands. Faced with this, Harry was strangely grateful. He, also, wondered if he should be guilty.

"It's…it's just unexpected, you know."

"Yeah, I know. It hurts sometimes to always get these little reminders of what you don't have anymore."

Draco chuckled humourlessly, his lips cocked into a half-smile. "Too right, you are. And sometimes you aren't as clueless as you appear, Potter."

Harry smiled widely at him; it looked like he would not have to cheer Draco up. He was doing a fine job of it himself. A little sign whizzed past his mind that looked curiously like a Chocolate Frog wizard card complete with a dancing wizard in the picture that displayed "CRISIS AVERTED!". Harry let a little grin win the struggle.

"Call me Harry."

"Right. Harry."

---------

**A/N:** Okay, yes, I know. It's short and boring. Doesn't seem very exciting, this chapter, does it? Well, guess what, there is much more to it than is plain to the eye. -cackles- BUT, next chappie has all of that glorious angst to it, naked Draco, and horny Harry (hey, that rhymed!) so fear not. I'm already about halfway through it, so I should be updating within the next week. I know…it's like having to read a history chapter before you get to the smut. I know, I know.


	16. Crumbling Beneath

**Title:** System Discordia

**Author**: Eris Mackenzie

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Rape, torture, slash, minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

**Spoilers:** SS, CS, PoA, GoF, OotP, HBP

**Main Pairing:** Harry/Draco

**Secondary Pairings**: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, Edmund/(early)Draco, more to come.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work.

**A/N:** I can really say nothing to excuse myself. I just hope that someone will read this! I very much apologise for taking...years...to update this. But do enjoy Harry's dream. Seriously, guys, this is where it starts earning that rated M for sexuality. I would have made it more explicit, but ffnet doesn't allow MA rated stories so don't blame me. Also, please excuse my writing if it seems a little rusty-it most definately is. It's a bit choppy at parts.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Crumbling Beneath**

_Let me see you stripped down to the bone_

_Let me hear you crying just for me_

_-Stripped (Shiny Toy Guns remix)_

* * *

The day had started out well. Draco had whipped up another batch of fantastic pancakes for breakfast while Harry, for once, _had not _burned the coffee. Neither had heard much from Hogwarts with the exception of a couple of letters every few days from Hermione, Ron, and occassionally Ginny. They both had finally sat down to eat breakfast when Harry heard a sharp tap on the window.

The amiable small talk immediately ceased as both men stared somewhat confusedly at the speckled Barn owl bobbing just outside of the frost-tinted glass.

"Now what could that be about?" Draco frowned a moment later, his brows scrunching a bit. "We weren't expecting anything from Professor McGonagall, were we? And you just got a letter from Granger yesterday..."

"No, we weren't expecting anything." Harry shook his head, eyes glued on the bird. He could see a thin letter clutched tightly in its talons. The cream envelope was mundane enough until Harry saw a flash of a red wax seal.

"Ministry," Harry swore, more to himself than Draco.

Draco stood and strode to the window, undoing the latch in a surprisingly smooth motion. Swift as a paper airplane, the owl swopped in neatly and plopped the letter heavily on the table. Neither Harry nor Draco paid much attention to its exit. Both stared for a second as if the letter were a ticking time bomb. Finally, Draco reached out toward the scarred table.

"Ministry-you were right," Draco murmured as he turned it over and read his own scripted initials.

Harry half expected it to fly out of Draco's hands and start reading its message aloud, but he was grateful when he saw Draco calmly break the seal and unfold the thick pages of parchment.

He read in silence, an oppressive hush reigning for a few minutes. A cold weight pressed down on Harry's chest. Draco's body gave nothing away. Harry could not tell if it was good news or bad-though if he knew anything about the Ministry, it was probably less inclined to good. Finally, when he could take it no longer, he opened his mouth and promptly shut it when Draco beat him to speaking.

"My trial date is set for April 15," Draco announced tonelessly. "I am expected there the night before to ensure that I will not be detained or otherwise missing. They will be contacting you at the end of March for further instruction."

"That's in-" Harry quickly counted, "-four months. It's December in a couple of days."

"Yes, four months, about," Draco echoed hollowly. He was still scanning the page, though whether or not it was yielding anything satisfying was doubtful.

"...Are you okay?"

Draco, thankfully, did not immediately withdraw but instead shrugged. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "It's different having a date set on it. So definite."

"I'm sorry," Harry said sincerely.

"Stop saying you're sorry!" The ambiance in the room changed as quickly as a crack of lightning flashes. Draco spun around, hands clenched at his sides. The letter fisted in his hand. Harry was taken aback by how furious he looked.

"I-I don't know what to say, Draco!" Harry spread his palms in front of him. "Honestly, I-I just..."

Draco visibly deflated. "It's okay," he said apologetically with a softened voice. He ran his fingers haphazardly through his hair a couple of times. Harry stood and walked to Draco. He forgot to think about it before he reached out and gently rubbed Draco's shoulder. Draco's muscles tensed for a second then leaned into it.

"Just don't think about it right now, okay?" Harry attempted to comfort him. "Just take it day by day. It will bog you down otherwise."

"Right," Draco said, breaking away after a moment and turning toward the sink. "Right. Want to help me clean these?" He gestured towards the dishes. Neither one of them was in the mood to eat the breakfast now cooling on the table.

Harry hummed an agreeing sound and turned the faucet to 'hot.' He briefly considered simply spelling the dishes clean, but he welcomed the mindless menial work. It was comforting after having done it for so many years. Anything to get their minds off of the impending future.

* * *

Two days later, and Draco still would not mention his upcoming trial. Harry himself was reluctant to bring up the topic though he knew how much it bothered the young man. Truthfully, it bothered Harry as well, far more than he liked to admit. He had kept himself as busy as he could; no room in the house was safe from his meticulous dusting, scrubbing, and furniture-maneuvering. Still, he found himself with nothing to do this afternoon.

Harry wandered around aimlessly for a while. Draco was reading in another book in the library; sometimes Harry swore that the blond man read more than Hermione did. As he strolled along, he was not entirely surprised when he came to and realised he was heading in the direction of the old study, the one that housed the antique photographs-particularly the one of the ancestral Draco Malfoy.

Opening the heavy door, he was again drawn to the table near the window. This time, however, he drew open the thick, musty curtains and allowed the cool light to flood the dusty room. He sighed as he saw the thick white flakes of snow clouding the sky; it had finally broken the uncharacteristic hold.

Ignoring the photographs at present, Harry scanned the rest of the room that had been dulled by the dimness. The desk he had looted through previously stood against a wall next to a dominating cherry wood book case filled to the brim with toppled books. Random pieces of parchment stuck out of several nooks and crannies. There were three paintings in the room, none of them magicked, which still struck Harry as odd.

He walked up to one of the paintings, this one a close view of a Patagonian rosewood door with brass hinges surrounding by blooming trees and winding grape vines. Its colors had not dimmed with age as Harry would have expected but were still crisp and vibrant. He delicately traced one of the purple-white flower blossoms with the tip of his finger. It was strange, he thought, but it almost looked like they were swaying. He tilted his head closer as he rubbed across a groove, interestingly enough in the latch of the painted door, and felt a shape bumped underneath the thick canvas. He touched it again to make sure he was not imagining it.

"A _keyhole_?" Harry wondered aloud, shaking his head slightly. Hesitating only a second, he dug his fingers around the frame, attempting to take it down and found it was verily glued to the wall.

"What in the world...?" he muttered. He wrenched the canvas again and this time it came loose with a crunching noise.

There was nothing on the wall behind it except for a lighter shade of wallpaper. Perplexed, Harry dragged his fingers across the wall and, sure enough, felt nothing. He shook his head hard and put the painting down, leaning it to keep it upright. As he rubbed his eyes, he figured that he must be ready for a nap.

"What are you doing back here?"

Harry jumped and whipped around to find Draco standing in the half-open doorway. He was wearing his standard black slacks and a light grey button-down shirt. It ran across Harry's mind that he did not think that the blond believed in a coloured wardrobe. He did look strangely attractive in the monochrome colors though, he had to admit.

"Oh, uh...I was just wandering around and ended up here, I guess," Harry replied casually.

Draco squinted at the lighter square on the wall and then down at the landscape. "Why is that on the ground? Merlin only knows how old it is."

Harry scratched his head sheepishly. "I...I thought that I felt something behind the painting."

"Something?"

"A keyhole."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry cursed the blush he felt rising.

"Look, that's what I thought I felt, okay?" he defended.

"Alright, no need to squash the bubotuber." Draco shrugged and waltzed into the room. He stooped a second later to pick up the painting and rested it on his hip, giving it a once-over.

Harry's eyes followed the slant of his hair down to his cheekbones. His lips were a little chapped, he noticed. He also seemed slightly thinner but it could have just been the overcast light. As he washed his gaze over the other man's silhouette, the warm, spicy scent of the blond made Harry's skin flush.

"Er..." Harry cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "Do you see anything?"

"Nope," Draco replied. "You must have been imagining things." He lifted the painting and pressed it neatly back to the wall where it sucked into place with a 'pop.'

"What is that?" Harry asked, indicating the strange sound.

"Oh, that? It's just a standard hanging spell. Easy to put up but a bugger to take down. We don't hang our pictures on nails-it ruins the wallpaper."

"What? But the portraits at Hogwarts were hung and-nevermind," Harry stopped himself at Draco's pointed look. "A pureblood thing, right?"

"A little. More like a "My wallpaper is threaded with silver" kind of thing."

"Are you serious?" Harry exclaimed. He was appauled at the decadence, as any middle class citizen in the whole of the United Kingdom would be.

"Not so much anymore, but when one has more money than one could spend in a lifetime, what else to do with it?"

"I couldn't imagine," Harry said dryly.

"Oh, by the way, you received a letter from Granger, it looks like. It is on the desk in the library."

Harry hummed his acknowledgement. He glanced over at the photographs on the table, previously out of mind, and suddenly recalled what Draco had said about his predecessor.

"Hey, Draco," Harry said. "Do you remember what you told me about the first Draco Malfoy? That they killed the only person he ever loved? What did you mean by that?"

Draco sighed shallowly. "Well, I meant exactly what I said. See, the first Draco Malfoy was somewhat of a-shall we say-lover of masculinity."

"You mean he was a poofer?" Harry blurted.

Draco's cheeks tinted pink. "Yes, though I would not have chosen to say it in such a crude manner. Either way, this in itself was of no consequence. I understand, however, in the Muggle world that there is far more controversy over such matters but children were and still are the goal in higher class wizarding families. He married a woman named Acina Gethen from a Welsh wizarding family. She had no qualms with his preferences as long as he produced an heir, which inevitably he did. She had several miscarriages before finally giving birth to a set of twins, a girl Evadne and a boy Albion. It was only after his experiments with earth magic began to gain attention did the family begin to meddle in his affairs.

"I already told you that he had apparently discovered some secret key to containing earth magic. This type of knowledge would be invaluable to the Malfoy family-imagine the influence one could hold in the palm of one's hand. With that, one would have more power than even the Dark Lord. When the family tried to force him to tell them his secrets, he refused. So, they took the man with whom he had bonded and eventually tortured him to death. Later, Draco disappeared without a trace but that didn't matter. He had already given them an heir."

Harry was silent for several long moments after Draco finished speaking. Ultimately, he said somewhat lamely, "That's awful. They are vastly different from people like Ron's family and what I know of Hermione's."

"Hm," Draco murmured quietly. "What of your family? You've hardly mentioned them."

"Oh, the Dursleys aren't my family." At Draco's questioning look, he elaborated. "What I mean is, I don't consider them family. They have never treated me like I was anything but a house elf essentially. I make a point not to make contact with them."

"See, then. You know what people can do." Draco looked down at that.

Harry realised what a sensitive subject this must be; he had almost forgotten the circumstances that had brought them to this point. _'This is your punishment for being who you are,' _a harsh voice from Harry's shared memory filtered through his consciousness. Harry felt a compelling urge to apologise to Draco but smothered it. He knew how the blond would react.

"I ought to go read that letter now," Harry finally interjected into the awkward silence that had fallen between them. He barely saw Draco's nod before he turned to leave.

Afterwards, it took Harry relatively little time to get to the library considering he had to hike up two flights of spiraling stairs and down the longest hallways to date. Sometimes he was could barely believe that all of the space could possibly be contained in such an outwardly small building. Then again, he did not forget about all of the wonders of the magical tents at the Quidditch World Cup. When he finally pushed past the door, he headed towards the elegantly carved desk in the furthest corner of the room. The chandelier in the center was weighted with freshly spruced crystals that bounced the light across the room in a shower of sparkle. The heavy scent of dust and aged books itched Harry's nose.

_'Dear Harry,' _the letter began, _'I hope all finds you well. We have missed you! I so wish that we could come to see you more often. My exams have left little time for anything but studying. However, I did find something of interest in the library, something that you really must see. Please let me know when you can meet. My love, 'Mione.'_

As he finished reading, he began to search for some parchment. He picked up a quill and dipped it in the ink, scrolling, _'Mione, must see when we can meet. Will let you know. H.'_

He glanced up to see the sky beginning to darken and sighed heavily as he folded the letter then turned to head back to the lower levels.

* * *

_"Harry...Harry..."_

_Harry shook his head, clearing his eyes. It was dark around him. He heard hooting-an owl-then rustling trees. The dirt was soft and almost spongy underneath his thin sneakers. As his sight adjusted, the surroundings became familiar. Tall, looming trees were thick and the scarce underbrush consisted of prickly bushes and dwarfed shrubs._

_It was the Forbidden Forest, not too far away from the Hogwarts grounds if Harry were to guess. He glanced up at the fluttering sound of wings in the air. Reflections of the fleeting moonlight glinted off of his glasses. From what Harry could see past the leafy canopy, there was not a single cloud in the night sky. _

_"Harry..." came the haunting, playful voice again. The voice, too, was familiar._

_"Draco?" Harry wondered aloud, then repeated himself louder in question. The voice called again, and he trecked in the direction from which it echoed through the compact forest. _

_The next time he heard his name, the voice was closer. He called for the blond again and got nothing in response. He stumbled through the trees, every once in a while tripping as his feet got caught in uplifted roots. The humidity in the forest was uncharacteristically high, making his clothes seem terribly heavy. Off somewhere far, he heard the distinctive warble of an augurey. A thin fog began to curl through the trees._

_Eventually, he saw a break past a dense thicket of briar bushes. The heady smell of pine needles and blooming roses curled into his nostrils. The voice sounded again. A thrilling tremble ran through Harry as he realized that the voice was no longer just calling his name but was nearly moaning it. He felt his face heat up at the thought. Pushing past the last of the prickly bushes, Harry caught sight of Draco and forgot to breathe._

_The moonlight lit Draco up effulgently, gilding polished planes of his body while others were thrust into sharp darkness. He was lewdly splayed out, completely nude, on the flat rock that raised almost a meter off of the moss-covered ground. His hair was sweat-soaked and plastered to his head in thin, sandy sections. Further down, his neck curved back and Harry saw the velvety black band-the tracking device-encircling it. His eyes, usually so penetrating and cold, were thankfully closed tight. His long legs with their scant downy hair looked like they were sculpted from warm marble. Harry's breath caught as he saw those same legs rock open to reveal his fully hardened member. _

_As if in response to Harry's entrance into the clearing, Draco moaned as he wrapped his hands around his throbbing organ. Opalescent drops of pre-cum, like miniture pearls, glistened on the purpled head. Without his knowledge, Harry's lips parted in a half-startled groan. His heartbeat pounded in his own ears as he latched on hungrily to the sight._

_"Harry," Draco moaned again. His eyes opened to languid slits, burning Harry wherever his glance happened to fall. Harry wanted desperately to move, but he was rooted as firmly to the ground as the giant oaks around him. Harry felt his trousers tighten in response to the scene; he did not have to look down to know that he was erect. Draco bored a hole straight to Harry's core as he continued to lock eyes. The mercury orbs glittered madly with some insane heat that was reflected in the heavy excitement slugging through Harry. Draco's hands never stopped moving; he bit his lip as his fingers grazed the sensitive dip beneath the glans. _

_Harry groaned deep in his throat but stayed stuck in position a meter and a half away. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck and his forehead. He was nearly panting._

_"Draco, what are you doing?" Harry asked desperately, attempting futilely to stave off his desire. He shook his head to clear it. "Why-what-why are you here? Why are you naked?"_

_Draco did not answer him but instead lifted a slender hand and crooked his finger, motioning him to come. As if suddenly released from a curse (or perhaps under the effect of a new one), Harry's feet jerked into movement and quickly strode to Draco's side. His questions went unanswered._

_"Watch me," Draco whispered softly._

* * *

Harry jerked awake panting. Sweat soaked his pyjamas and made them cling uncomfortably to his skin. He was immediately aware that his body ached but not in a sore-muscle kind of way. Sleep addled his brain; however, it was not enough for him to forget his dream-or the fact that the main spectacle in said dream was sleeping next to him. Panic gripped him for a moment. He blinked rapidly then turned his head over and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that the blond was still asleep. He did not know what had awoken him but he did not care to investigate.

Carefully, so as not to wake Draco up, he looked down and winced at the tented sheets. He took a painstakingly long time in sitting up and getting out of the bed. He had to stop and bite his lip when his erection rubbed pleasurably against his pants. Finally, he tip-toed out of the room as quietly as a church mouse. Once he was outside of the door, he quickly scrampered across the hallway and shut himself inside the bathroom.

Once facing the mirror, Harry felt like punching a hole in the glass. "Fuck! Fuck! What the hell was that about?" Harry swore angrily to himself. The ever-present shadows under his eyes looked even darker in the low light.

He ran his hands through his shaggy hair and pulled it taut for several seconds, bringing tears to his eyes. What was he thinking about? What was wrong with him? Draco was his _charge_, for bloody fuck's sake! He could not do this! And since when had he ever thought of men in that way? He'd only ever been with Ginny.

"Oh, gods, what am I doing?" Harry moaned. He collapsed against the counter, dropping down to his knees onto the stone tiles. His movement jarred a certain part of his anatomy, reminding him again of his rather agressive need. He had known that this feeling was creeping up, but it had felt so differently from what he had felt for Ginny-he had not experienced this molten lava eating up his body before-that he did not realize it for what it was. With Ginny, it was a gradual affection, a slow warming. With Draco, it was like getting hit by a train at full speed.

It terrified him.

Harry fought down the urge to sob and vomit at the same time and tried to steady his trembling hands. Flashes of his dreams whizzed past his mind's eye, burned the images into the backs of his retinas. He could practically still hear Draco's voice moaning his name like an auditory orgasm. Almost without him thinking about it, Harry's right hand slid along the soft fabric of his pyjama pants, stopping for just a second before sliding under the waistband. He tried desperately not to think about how wrong it was to think about these things as the delicious pressure brought him to a swift climax less than five minutes later.

As he got up to rinse his hands and face, he was grateful for the creaking ache in his knees as he stood.

* * *

Harry avoided Draco as much as he could the next morning. It was awkward just being in the same room as him. He even pretended to sleep until well past nine o'clock so that he could eat breakfast late. His dream and what happened after he awoke would not stop torturing him. He knew on one hand that it was useless to try and forget about it but he would try his hardest to try in the meantime.

He was relieved from the tension for a few minutes with a fire call from Ginny asking if she could visit for a while since it was the weekend. He gladly obliged. Now, it was nearly noon, and Harry had just walked downstairs when he heard a loud knock at the front door. A quick revealing spell showed Ginny standing, bouncing slightly on the soles of her feet as she waited.

"Hey, Ginny," Harry greeted warmly as he swung open the door.

"Hi, Harry!" Ginny grinned widely. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Harry held the door open for her and quickly shut it after she stepped over the threshold.

"So, how have you been holding up, Golden Boy?" Ginny asked, teasing gently. She playfully nipped him on the arm and laughed when Harry circled his arms around her waist out of habit and swung her off of her feet in a half-circle. They played around for a bit, once again completely at ease with one another. It was like coming home to a warm hearth and a goblet of Butterbeer, familiar and comfortable. It also made Harry contrast how different it felt from Draco. It bothered him that it did not measure up.

He did not realise how much noise they were making while talking until he happened to catch sight of a flash of blond hair out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh, Draco." He started in surprise, abruptly dropping the arm he had wrapped around Ginny's shoulders. "I forgot to tell you that Ginny was coming over to visit," he finished somewhat guiltily.

There was an unreadable look in Draco's eyes that vanished as soon as it had come. It took Harry by surprise when Draco suddenly smiled politely and greeted Ginny with as much grace as any supreme host. Ginny, for her part, was a little taken aback at this upfront and frankly_ nice _Malfoy but replied in kind.

"How are you feeling, Malfoy?" She seemed a little hesitant to directly address Draco and stumbled a little over his surname.

Draco again smiled graciously and said, "I'm doing well, thank you. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to make some."

"That sounds good, thanks."

Draco merely nodded in reply and stepped off of the staircase before turning and heading toward the kitchen. Ginny waited until Draco turned the corner and then looked at Harry with her eyebrows raised.

"Since when does Malfoy act civilised?" she asked.

Harry shrugged. "You'd be surprised by him, I think. He's actually not half the arse he was in Hogwarts."

"Really? I would have thought that he would be difficult to get along with."

"Well, sometimes," he admitted._ Especially after last night's events_, he remembered. "But he's changed a lot since the beginning of the war."

"Hmm..." Ginny hummed then brightened. "There was a reason that I wanted to come by. I was wondering if you would like to go out sometime. Hermione mentioned that your wardrobe was sadly lacking in winter clothing-again-and that you needed some new clothes stat."

"That sounds nice, actually," Harry said. "I'd been meaning to get some new ones lately but I haven't gotten around to it. But there is one problem."

"And what's that?"

"Draco can't exactly be seen outside, if you know what I mean," Harry explained.

"Oh," Ginny replied. Her coral lips curved into a perfect frown. "I see." She was quiet for a moment then asked, "Draco?"

It took Harry a second to realise what she was asking. "Yeah," he replied. "I've been calling him that for a while now...it's just weird calling someone by their last name all the time."

"I...could see that. It nonetheless sounds so odd to hear you saying that, Harry. Anyway," she shook her head. "What about a Disillusionment Charm? I think _personatus_ would do. It will mask whoever it is cast on by rearranging the features. You can always change his haircolor and such, too."

"Hah!" Harry grinned. "You're good enough to rival Hermione sometimes, you know."

"Only sometimes?" Ginny laughed. "It is complement enough merely to be compared to the great Hermione Granger. If I only had half of the brains she has..."

"Nah, you're plenty brilliant." The sharp shrill of a tea kettle broke the conversation. "How about we go get that tea?"

After Ginny had left near dusk, Draco, predictably, was none too thrilled to hear about the shopping excursion planned for the next day.

"It does cross one's mind that such an outing could be extremely dangerous, does it not?" Draco admonished scathingly as he paced the sitting room floor. This was one of the rooms that Harry had scoured during his binge-cleaning.

"I am well aware, Draco," Harry replied evenly. "But have you not also noticed that neither one of us has adequate winter clothing?"

"My attire is well enough to get me through the winter, thank you very much."

"Draco." Harry gave the blond a pointed look. "You don't even own a winter coat and you've been wearing nothing but thin shirts, same as me."

Draco seemed almost scandalised that his wardrobe could in any way be compared to Harry's. "I couldn't very well take every bit of clothing with me! Ministry rules do put a limit on the number of items to which I have access."

"But you still have access to your Gringotts account, right?"

"I do," Draco admitted. "But it is monitored closely. I probably couldn't get more than 300 Galleons out, if that."

"300 Galleons?" Harry repeated incredulously. "Where do you shop? That there is a lump sum."

"Is it?" Draco waved his hand dismissively. "That may be enough for me to buy a few outfits."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It will more likely than not be difficult for you to get that amount of money out. Perhaps for simplicity's sake, I should just buy the both of ours."

For a moment, Draco was silent. Harry realised that this was perchance the first time anyone had ever offered to buy something for him. The Malfoy family, after all, were known for their wealth.

"I suppose," Draco agreed after a long pause. "But only for simplicity's sake."

"Absolutely," Harry assured him.

"This still leaves the problem of how I am going to possibly be able to go out in public without causing a riot. And that Disillusionment spell-would it not make the Ministry suspicious?"

"Already took care of that," Harry announced. "I sent a letter with Ginny to be mailed from Hogwarts informing them of when and why we were using the spell. It is not as if they can't track you wherever you go anyway."

"Fine. However, it is not my fault if they come and apprehend me, Potter."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, I want honest opinions on whether or not you liked the dream scene. Too much, too little, too rushed, in the wrong place in the story? I pushed this chapter out in like two days, so I feel like it might be a little iffy. I may have to take this chapter down and do a re-write if you guys think it ought to be better.


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